


Cry Havoc

by Trouble_With_The_Snap



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Betrayal, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Corporate Shilling, Dark Tony Stark, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trouble_With_The_Snap/pseuds/Trouble_With_The_Snap
Summary: Three years after signing the Sokovia Accords, the Avengers are marketed, monetized, and mobilized by Stark Industries, all under the direction of Tony Stark and Thaddeus Ross. The government is more than happy to cover up any PR blunders and accidental deaths that the Avengers might cause along the way.Bucky Barnes is a retired Special Forces vet and the only survivor of an overseas mission gone south after the sudden and disastrous intervention of the Avengers had killed off his entire team. He lives off of the generous settlement they’d paid him to keep his mouth shut, letting the guilt slowly eat him alive.After Bucky's chance encounter with Captain America, a former-Avenger turned vigilante hell-bent on taking down his old team for good approaches Bucky with an offer of revenge.How can he say no?The mash-up of the MCU and The Boys that absolutely nobody asked for, starring Bucky as Hughie (kind of) and Steve as Starlight (ish).
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, past Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton
Comments: 123
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was always Team Cap for Civil War, and I rolled my eyes when I saw Far From Home because Tony just…never learned, did he? A look at how the Accords might have gone down if Steve hadn't had a Bucky to look out for and Stark Industries were just a little more like Vought. 
> 
> Title from Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar".
> 
> Warnings: Potentially inaccurate depictions of the military, PTSD, mental illness, therapy, etc. Strong/offensive language, violence, and sex. Characters you know and love being Not Nice in general.
> 
> Do not copy or move to another site.

_“Barnes, get out of there!”_

_“I’m not leaving him!”_

_“Goddamnit, Barnes, that’s an—”_

Bucky fidgets on the couch, wishing he were anywhere else. It’s harder to fidget with just one arm, and he still hasn’t gotten used to it.

Across the room, his therapist watches him, apparently content to just smile placidly until Bucky’s hour is up.

“I’m getting a dog,” Bucky says finally, just to fill the silence.

Predictably, Jeff simply nods, his expression mild. “That sounds nice. A service dog?”

“Nah. Just—I don’t know. Shelter dog, or something.”

“Interesting. Why not a service dog?” 

Bucky exhales inaudibly, clenching his hand around his mug of lukewarm coffee. He hadn’t much liked PT—every movement had made him painfully aware of his new limitations and had only served to sharpen the painful realization that he’d not only lost his arm, but his entire life. 

_Therapy_ -therapy is much worse. 

Jeff is—young-ish, Bucky supposes. Forties, maybe? The VA had set Bucky up with Jeff—they’d claimed that Jeff was ex-military, specializing in PTSD, and from the brief description they’d given Bucky, he’d expected a grizzled Colonel Kurtz-type. Jeff looks like a guy who’s never seen vehement name-calling, let alone combat. He’s soft around the edges. Wears a sweater vest. Smiles blandly.

Jeff doesn’t seem to care much that Bucky can’t tell him any details about how he’d lost his arm—or two whole weeks of his life. He doesn’t probe when Bucky skirts the details of waking up and realizing that his entire team was dead, immolated into nothing by a fucking—teenage witch, or whatever she is. 

Bucky had always thought that therapists were all about digging into the guts of your childhood, or exposing your deepest darkest secrets to the harsh light of day, but Jeff doesn’t do any of that. He asks mundane questions about Bucky’s feelings, and about Bucky’s day-to-day activities. Bucky’s not exactly sure what Jeff’s getting out of this—or if it’s doing anything for him, either—but he dutifully recounts the week’s minutiae for Jeff anyway, sometimes throwing in a tense moment or two just so that Jeff knows he’s, you know. Trying. 

He feels kind of bad about wasting Jeff’s time.

Bucky wonders if Jeff is as bored as he is, and if anything he might say would get a genuine reaction out of him. He’s actually not really clear on what he’s allowed to tell Jeff, since he’s pretty sure that even an approved military shrink doesn’t get to hear the gory details—when Jeff had asked his branch, he’d told him JSOC and left it at that. The habit of silence is so deeply ingrained in him at this point that he thinks it would do him worse to break it. He toys with telling Jeff something really shocking, like about the time he’d been sent in for a PIFWIC extraction from a mid-level cartel in Guatemala and found a dozen severed heads impaled on the fence outside the compound. 

Bucky gets the odd feeling that Jeff wouldn’t bat an eye.

Why a shelter dog? Bucky definitely qualifies for a service dog, and he probably needs one. It’s not just the arm, either. He’s well aware that he’s probably been not-okay since he got back—he’d checked off over half the boxes on the form Jeff had given him before their first session. Hopelessness. Upsetting dreams or nightmares. Feeling emotionally numb. Detachment—although he’s not sure that he can blame that one on his brain. He hadn’t had too many attachments to begin with.

Excessive (excruciating, ever-present, all-consuming) guilt. 

He’d been in the service long enough to understand that he’s probably got some form of PTSD, even if the constant vivid flashbacks weren’t a dead giveaway, which is why he’d signed up for this in the first place. His weekly sessions with Jeff are his one concession that he’s not exactly doing so well—that and the fact that other than his infrequent trips to get takeout, he’s basically completely isolated. He can’t even bring himself to show up to group, anymore; not after the fucking Falcon started showing up there, glad-handing and preening and generally acting like he hadn’t had a personal hand in ruining Bucky’s life. 

If Bucky gets a service dog, he’ll be all but admitting how weak he is—the dog won’t be a companion but a tacit acknowledgement of how his independence has been permanently hampered. 

At least a shelter dog will need him. 

At least he’ll be saving someone.

He makes up some vague excuse to Jeff and the conversation limps on in fits and starts. When Jeff asks him if he’s thinking about what’s next, Bucky gives the same meandering half-answers that he always does—that he’s looking online, that he’s asking questions. That he’s looking at college programs and hitting up old contacts. 

All lies, of course. His military benefits are more than enough for him to live on for a good while, even without the settlement he’d gotten from Stark Industries. More than that, he just can’t bring himself to care. At this point, he’s used to spending his time doing nothing but watching trash TV in three-day-old sweats and occasionally fantasizing about planting a dirty bomb in Avengers Tower.

The only thing Bucky really wants to get off his chest is the crushing guilt that he feels for taking that money and signing the NDA. He tells himself that he hadn’t had a choice, and that’s probably true—everything about his job had been so highly classified anyway that the ostensibly redundant NDA is what had first sent up a red flag for him. He’d been shocked to have even received his medical discharge, and even more shocked that they’d just—let him go about his life. He thought he’d be thrust into a consulting role, or have at least have to check in with a handler, or _something_ after living for so long in such a high-stakes world, but apparently, even ex-Special Forces members are just...cut loose.

Just to avoid having to keep up the conversation, he manages to get Jeff talking about panic attack symptoms. Bucky’s not actually having panic attacks—he almost wishes that he were, just for some catharsis to the dull throb of bitterness he lives with most days—but he can let his mind drift while Jeff brightens and starts to describe _nausea_ and _terror_ and _racing heart_.

He’s a good guy, Jeff. It’s not his fault that Bucky’s such a lost cause.

* * *

Later, Bucky takes the long ride out to Brooklyn, just for lack of something better to do. There's a lot of hours in the day left to waste, and he might as well spend it digging the painful lacerations of memory a little deeper. He ambles slowly down half-familiar streets, avoiding eye contact with passersby and trying to quiet the insistent part of him that wants to return to the relative safety of his silent apartment. He pauses for a moment to glance over a wall covered in graffiti--he likes to look at street art, some of it's actually quite impressive--and then his stomach clenches as his eye catches the giant white and blue symbol. Even here he can’t escape the reminder of what he'd done.

The ubiquitous stylized “A” has been plastered on everything from lunchboxes to high-performance athletic gear these days. This one is huge and freshly painted, eclipsing the usual cartoons and tags that Bucky likes to look at. Cynically, he wonders if this “graffiti” isn’t just the work of their PR team.

Sometime in mid-2016, there’d been this sudden Avengers media blitz. It had been…weird. Before, people _knew_ about the Avengers, of course, but all of a sudden they were being relentlessly promoted, showing up in twos and threes on the cover of every magazine and on the line-up of every late-night talk show. The Falcon throws the first pitch of the season; Black Widow presents the Oscar for Best Picture. Here’s Captain America down at the soup kitchen, helping out the little people; here’s the Vision at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. 

Bucky remembers feeling surprised, and a little bit betrayed—the Avengers were kind of corny, sure, but they’d also saved the world on several occasions, and deep down he’d kind of admired them. Captain America had been a perennial favorite in the service for obvious reasons. Bucky knows that he’d made a point to visit the troops overseas, and by all accounts he’d been pretty low-key about it—a lot of celebrities are clearly just doing it for the press, but Bucky had only heard about that through the grapevine.

Now, it seems like they’re _all_ just full-blown celebrities. Oh, they still do _missions_ , of course—there’s always a glowing news story about a drug cartel that they’d managed to apprehend, or a capsized warship that they’d managed to hoist right out of the water, saving the crew, but it all feels so…corporate. Even their interviews—once incredibly rare and off the cuff—have turned into a well-rehearsed series of slick talking points. It had all given Bucky an implacable feeling of unease even before he’d learned the truth, just last year—that all of the glitz and glamour acts as a smokescreen for the fact that the Avengers are definitely being deployed when the cameras aren’t watching.

At this point, he’s not sure if the public would even care, if they knew. 

He tries to avoid Avenger news when he can, but he has to admit that he’s a little curious as to what the fuck had happened. It’s probably something to do with the Sokovia Accords, which he only vaguely remembers. They had been so ambiguously publicized—all those New Era for the Avengers headlines that hadn’t gone into any real details. Mostly, he remembers the Accords because some crazy guy had somehow broken into the UN, of all places, and had tried to shoot up the place. It was some political nut-job, but he’d managed to kill a few ranking diplomats even with all those Avengers there for the signing.

Right after that was when he’d started noticing the changes, and it hadn’t all been the new media package they’d rolled out. Thor is never present, and he hasn’t been seen since, what—the Sokovia incident itself? But he’s an alien, or something, so maybe he’s just gone back to his home planet. The Hulk hasn’t been seen since either, though, and unlike Thor he’s never included on any of the official Avengers licensing material. Neither has Hawkeye, apparently “retired” since Sokovia, but then, Bucky never really got what he was supposed to be doing there in the first place. As far as he can tell, Hawkeye is pretty good with a bow and arrow but that’s—less effective than a standard jarhead with a M-16, so maybe the Avengers had just decided that they didn’t really need him anymore.

Especially after they’d picked up the witch.

A year or so ago they’d added another new guy—“Spiderman”. He’s never seen without his mask on (although they almost always appear in costume, now, to be fair) and Bucky thinks he’s unbearably douchey. Spiderman’s gig seems to be stopping petty crime, and it’s the same thing over and over with him—a news report coming in from downtown, and there’s always a nice shot of some dastardly crooks struggling to free themselves from that weird jizz-rope spider-web. Then the camera moves in to interview the little old lady they’d mugged, and she falls all over herself thanking Spiderman. _Your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman!_ seems to be his unbelievably cheesy catch-phrase, and every time he has to hear it Bucky feels a sharp pang, thinking of all the cutting jokes he would have made with his friends. 

You know, if the Avengers hadn’t turned them into pink mist. 

Bucky thinks about coming back here at night, and writing something nasty on top of the A. He’s not all that creative, but maybe just a simple _fuck you_ would make it look like the entire world doesn’t worship at the feet of these assholes. Sure, there’s always the lone dissenting voice, but they’re largely drowned out by the roar of public approval. Even the talking heads on CNN and FOX seem strangely reluctant to criticize them, at least after the Accords. 

It only serves to make him feel more isolated than he already is, which is a feat. A life spent in a highly-classified special forces organization doesn’t exactly present a lot of opportunities for making civilian friends, and his unit had been the only real family he’d had left. 

He turns away, and digs his phone out of his pocket. Animal shelters. Right. 

* * *

* * *

Steve stares blankly into the bathroom mirror, assessing his face detachedly. He supposes he should be used to the humiliation by this point—he’d thought nothing could have been worse than having to attend the Red Carpet premiere of that god-awful _Avengers_ documentary, but today Christina had informed him that he’d need to go to hair and make-up before the press conference.

 _It’s just that the press thinks you’ve been looking tired, and we don’t want questions_ , is what she’d said, but what he’d heard was, _you look like crap_. Nobody wants to see Captain America in anything less than the peak of health.

Today is an all-Avengers conference, so he won’t be able to get out of it. Once he’d thought that nothing could be worse than parading around in tights and a winged helmet, hawking war bonds, but at least then he’d been selling something _worthwhile_. He’s not even sure what they're supposed to be promoting today, unless there's been some crisis or scandal that he doesn't know about. He’d been given briefing materials, but since nobody’s given him a pre-written speech or grilled him on relevant talking points for today, he’ll probably just be expected to smile charmingly in support.

He takes small comfort in the fact that Sam is going to be there this time. It’s funny—even though they live in the same building, now, Steve thinks he sees less of Sam than he ever used to. There’s a level of reserve between them lately that hadn’t been there before the Accords. Sometimes, Steve thinks that maybe they both believe the other has sold out.

Sam’s _brand_ , as Christina calls it, is mental-health issues, and that’s what Sam spends a lot of his time promoting, these days. Steve still steadfastly refuses to go all-in with the Stark PR team, so he’s not exactly sure what his own brand is supposed to be. General Americana, he supposes—a symbol of the good ol’ days to keep the flyover states on their side. He’d stayed with the Avengers because it had been the only way he could keep helping people, but some days, he thinks it would have been better to have just retired altogether.

He scrubs at his face and then resignedly turns away to find his shoes, not even bothering to put on something better than his old sweats. They’ll tell him what to wear. He’s not sure how many versions of the Captain America outfit they’ve got for him now, but most likely they’ll go with the bright, slightly cheesy suit that Coulson had originally designed. He’s got a vague sense that it’s his “official” costume, but he thinks it looks a bit ridiculous next to the comparatively muted or edgier outfits the others wear. There's clearly been no attempt to make him look intimidating or capitalize on any latent sex-appeal he might be hiding--sometimes, Steve sort of thinks he looks like a cartoon.

Maybe that’s his brand. ‘Wholesome.’ They had made him do all those PSAs for high-schoolers, after all, and it had been just like back in his USO days— _“Today, my good friend, your gym teacher, will be conducting the Captain America Fitness Challenge!”_

_Winning smile._

Not for the first time, he’s painfully envious of Peter’s mask. The initial reason for Peter’s anonymity had been because he’s still a minor, of course, but the inherent mysterious aura it lends him has given him a big boost in popularity. According to Tony the internet is hard at work trying to decipher the true identity of Spiderman, but he’s got dedicated interns making sure nobody gets too close to the truth. 

FRIDAY directs him to green room five, and sure enough, there’s a team of stylists waiting. They’re clearly thrilled to be working with him, and he tries to meet their expectations—none of this is their fault, after all. He smiles as sincerely as he can and he does his best to ask them thoughtful questions—tries to get them talking about themselves so that he can nod and smile and let his mind drift. 

“Lookin’ good, Hollywood.”

He exhales, and forces a friendly grin. “Hey, Rhodey.”

Rhodes isn’t really a part of the official Avengers line-up—he’s still military, so his occasional presence is more a reminder of the official stamp of government approval they still bear. 

“We’re on in twenty, Cap,” Rhodes says, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Just gotta get changed,” he says.

Rhodes smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. “No sweat. Hey, they’re gonna love this, it’ll be a cake-walk.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, trying to recall what he’d read in his briefing.

Rhodes pumps a fist and points at him as he turns to go, calling, “We’re doin’ good here, Cap!”

Christina brushes past him as she enters the green room, managing to look both perfectly coiffed and impossibly harried. “Rogers, we need you _now_.”

Christina Ward had come on board not long after they’d all officially relocated to Avengers Tower. Technically, there’s an entire PR team behind them, but Christina is its ruthlessly efficient head. Steve gets the feeling that she’s also taken over where Pepper had left off, at least as Tony’s assistant-cum-life manager.

She seems mostly unfazed by them, although she’ll stroke an ego if that’s what it takes—she’ll prod and cajole and flatter and threaten, whatever she needs to get them all to fall in line. He’s clearly just another client that she sees in need of wrangling. 

He sort of appreciates her for that. 

He joins the rest of the team as they’re easing in to their seats. In true Tony fashion, the room has been dedicated for just this purpose, the backdrop showing both the Avengers and Stark Industries logos. On the top floor, there’s also a dedicated Avengers-themed boardroom, complete with a stylized metal relief fashioned after the iconic picture from the Battle of New York. Supposedly it’s where they hold briefings and talk about world peace, but mostly they just use it for photo ops and hold briefings in a conference room somewhere. 

Everyone’s dressed in their what he’s come to think of as their “classic” costumes. Except for Tony, of course, who’s dressed in an expensive-looking suit and a pair of red-tinted glasses. Sam grins, and Nat gives him her usual inscrutable nod. Wanda examines her nails, and Vision smiles, polite as ever. Peter gives him an eager wave.

Steve does his best to look wholesome.

“Glad you could join us, Cap,” Tony says, not looking at him. "That mascara really brings out your eyes."

Tony’s sitting dead center. Mostly, they position Steve as the unofficial "leader" of the Avengers, but Tony is the one in the spotlight more often than not--Steve's just usually the central figure in official pictures, and the one who gives the inspirational speeches. There hasn't really been a cosmic "Avengers"-level threat in awhile, so the question of who calls point on missions is somewhat moot. 

Steve doesn't rise to the bait, just smiles thinly and takes his seat. Although Tony's always needled Steve for his own amusement, these days his barbs seem to have taken on a sharper edge.

He thinks that maybe he and Pepper are "off again", but he's not sure. He and Tony weren't exactly close before, and now--well.

Christina stalks in front of them, rearranging their positions and tugging at outfits. “Alright everyone, heads up, smiles on. Where’s—Wanda, sweetie, over here, next to Peter. Okay. Ready? We go live in five – four – three – two—”

The divider opens automatically to reveal a crowd of reporters, sudden camera bursts clicking rapidly. 

Christina quiets the press and makes the opening remarks and introductions before ceding the floor to Tony, as usual. 

“Welcome!” Tony announces, waving a hand grandly and baring a white-stripped grin. 

Steve lets his thoughts wander as Tony starts to speak, automatically keeping his friendly smile firmly affixed. These press conferences started as a supposed measure of transparency—according to Tony, the world had had enough of SHIELD and secret government cabals deciding their fates behind their backs. Tony, of course, was a public figure long before he put on the suit, but the rest of them—other than, maybe, Steve—were more or less unknowns. That had been the initial impetus for all the public appearances, at least, but now it’s just business as usual.

He refocuses as Tony's voice takes on a more serious edge. 

“But it’s not just about saving lives,” Tony is saying. “And it’s not just about stopping the bad guys, either. You know, my dad always used to say that peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy. But the thing is, my dad said that back in the nineteen-sixties. You know what was happening ten years later?”

He pauses, and lets his gaze sweep over the crowd. “Energy crisis. And back then, we were all about about finding renewable energy sources. Solar power. Nuclear power. I was seven at the time, by the way. Guess how far we’ve come with that?”

There’s no answer, but of course Tony isn’t expecting one. “Yeah. We’re basically still at square one, except that _this_ time, shaking a big stick at OAPEC isn’t going to make everything go away, because we’re all facing a much bigger crisis than energy: climate change. Global warming. We shook our stick and we got what we wanted and we scrapped all that nonsense about renewable energy, and now the polar ice caps are melting. We’re all going to be underwater in about ten years. And that’s something that no amount of _kicking ass_ is going to fix.”

Steve has no idea where Tony’s going with this. This sounds more like a Stark Industries product launch than anything else.

“But-- _but_ \--we’re the Avengers,” Tony says simply. “And if in the past ten years we’ve proven anything, it’s that we do not go down without a fight. And we don't ever stop looking for a solution. And that’s why I am pleased to be able to tell you that we—” he pauses and points out at the sea of breathless reporters, jabbing his index fingers into the air for emphasis, “are committed to installing a _full scale Arc Reactor_ in _every major city in America!_ ”

The press erupts in scattered cheers and shouted questions as Tony grins, hugely self-satisfied, his arms spread wide in triumph. “Clean energy!” he shouts over the din. “We are going to tackle global warming one city at a time!”

Steve keeps his own smile plastered onto his face and tries not to show his surprise as Tony fields questions, sounding more like a politician than a _playboy billionaire._ It’s a nice cause, he guesses, but—what exactly do the Avengers have to do with climate change? Or with an arc reactor pilot program, for that matter? This feels like a Stark Industries initiative with the Avengers label slapped onto it. 

Lost in thought, he barely notices when Christina wraps up the conference, forcibly herding out reporters still shouting questions at them. He dutifully files out with the rest of the Avengers, distantly noticing Wanda and Vision heading straight for the elevators—Steve gets the sense that Vision is making a concerted effort to appear “normal”, seemingly abandoning his habit of ghosting through walls and appearing abruptly out of nowhere.

Maybe he’d been polling unfavorably, or something. 

Distantly, a small part of him wonders who exactly will be paying for the arc reactors. The taxpayers? Because if—

“Hey, Cap.”

A familiar voice breaks into his thoughts.

It’s Sam, smiling easily. “You want to grab a quick coffee?”

“Sure. Just—”

“Gotta change, right.”

Back in his sweats, he follows Sam into the elevators. Avengers Tower now boasts several cafes and restaurants (along with a gift shop) on the first two floors, selectively open only for certain events but staffed around the clock for Avengers personnel and Stark Industries employees. Sam steers them towards the Beanery.

They sit for a moment in awkward silence, both of them sipping at their coffees. Steve’s is far too hot and burns his tongue, but hey—he’s a superhero, right?

“So. Arc reactor in every major city,” he says finally. “How do you think they’re going to accomplish that?”

Sam shakes his head. “Do you ever read the briefings these days?” he asks, his tone half-fond, half-exasperated. 

Steve quirks his lips. “I skimmed it.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re lucky Christina lets you get away with that stuff.”

Steve huffs. “I guess they can always fire me, but what’ll that do to the brand?”

Sam looks at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. 

“Look, man,” he says finally, “This is kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I get that this isn’t—exactly what you signed up for. But lately, I get the feeling that you’re losing sight of the big picture, here.”

“Which is?”

“Even if it isn’t the way we wanted it, we have a big opportunity here. You have an opportunity here that a lot of people would kill for. You have a platform to speak out on anything you want, and you’re refusing to use it because, what—you don’t like Tony being in charge? You’re still mad about the Accords?”

Steve sighs. It isn’t the first time that Sam has hinted at his supposed bad attitude, but it’s the first time he’s been so bald about it. 

“No, and I know,” he says, “I get it. But I just feel like—I don’t know. Like I’m out hawking war bonds again.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, folding his arms. His face is unreadable, but Steve can sense the disapproval wafting off of him. “You know what I did last week?” 

“No.”

“I set up a multi-million dollar scholarship fund for underprivileged students from military families. You know how I did that?”

Steve shakes his head.

Sam looks at him patiently. “I made a phone call, Cap. Had a sit down with Pepper, made the pitch, and boom. It’ll be announced next week. Sure, I’ll have to sit through a bunch of boring interviews and maybe even another press conference but it’s worth it. We’re doing more good here than we ever were when we were just a glorified STRIKE team.”

Steve toys with his coffee cup, absently shredding the sides. Sam’s not wrong, but this is also not remotely the first Avengers-branded charity initiative Steve’s seen. He gets the sense that there’s some amount of money set aside for this very thing—he vaguely recalls Natasha being recently involved with some kind of nonprofit for victims of sex trafficking. Then, too, every so often, Stark Industries announces a fundraising drive for some trendy cause, and it always seems to end with “a portion of the profits” of some limited edition Avengers t-shirt being flogged to the masses. 

Sure, a scholarship fund sounds great. It’ll probably do a lot of good. And it’s very on brand. Obviously Sam has no ulterior motives beyond helping underprivileged kids. And yet—  


“You don’t think its weird?” he asks finally. “What exactly do we have to do with arc reactors? That’s Tony, but that’s not us.”

“Does it really matter? This could be the start of us solving global warming, for real. If he needs an Avengers stamp of approval to get it done, so what? 

“It just feels so—manufactured,” Steve says, staring down at the table. Sometimes, even he doesn’t understand why he feels so discomfited about ostensibly uplifting developments. 

Maybe he’s feeling obsolete. 

“You know? Like these days, any celebrity could be doing my job.”

“That’s something you’re gonna have to make your peace with,” Sam says. “Not every problem has to be solved by punching it.”

Steve looks up sharply. 

Sam must be able to read his face, because his own expression visibly softens.

“Look, I get it,” Sam says, not unkindly. “I don’t like this whole corporate-shill thing, either. But that’s the hand we’ve been dealt. We can work _within_ the system to effect change, too, alright? So lose the attitude, smile big, and remember—” he leans forward and grips Steve’s shoulder. “We’re doing a lot of good here, Cap.”

That’s what people keep telling him, these days.

“Anyway,” Sam says, leaning back, his expression relaxing, “I need to be ready to go in—” he checks his watch, “—shit, two hours, so I’m heading off.”

“Benefit?” Steve asks.

Sam grins. “Got a date!” He stands and pushes in his chair, absently throwing a twenty onto the table.

“Are we allowed to date?” Steve wonders out loud, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

“It’s not indentured servitude, Cap, lighten up! There are other perks to being an Avenger, you know. Tell you what—if it goes well, I’ll see if she’s got a friend.”

Steve sits at the café long after Sam’s left. He can see the barista sneaking wide-eyed glances, but he knows that anyone employed by Stark Industries is bound by a stack of NDAs and conduct agreements. He doesn’t deny that it’s a relief not to be hounded inside the Tower, but he feels wildly uncomfortable with the fact that the poor barista—a skinny kid who’s probably barely eighteen—might lose his job just for approaching him. 

Later that night, Steve abandons any pretense of sleep and exits the Tower, heading nowhere in particular. He’s been making something of a habit of it, lately. He tells himself that he’s not looking for any muggers or nefarious foes helpfully skulking about, but deep down, he knows that some part of him misses just being able to—what, do his part? Be a hero? 

Isn’t that the opportunity he has now? 

He finds himself wandering aimlessly around Central Park at four in the morning, finally collapsing onto a bench for lack of anything better to do. It’s become something of a habit for him, since he doesn’t really need that much sleep anyway.

It’s nice to be outside with no one around to bother him, for once. No blushing fans or paparazzi lurking in the bushes. He can enjoy the quiet and pretend for a second that he’s not an Avenger, or a celebrity, or even Captain America. 

He misses being Steve Rogers a lot, these days.

He thinks about the picture he'd once drawn--Captain America, the dancing monkey.

_You were meant for more than this, you know._

He never really stops missing Peggy, but these days he feels the loss like a physical ache. No one here knows him as anything other than _Captain America_ , the star-spangled sell-out who'd signed away his good name.

He feels desperately alone.

* * *

* * *

Even though it’s clean, well-lit, and clearly clogged with earnest volunteers, the shelter is unbelievably depressing. Everywhere Bucky looks he sees sweet-faced dogs and cats vying desperately for his attention. On the front of each cage is a small note describing the animal’s name, sex, and age, and then sometimes a little handwritten blurb about why they’re in the shelter.

_Hi! I came to the shelter when my owners moved away and left me behind. I’m a little shy, but very sweet—with a little love, I could be a perfect companion._

_Hi! I was left at the shelter because my owners have a newborn and were tired of cleaning up after me. I am very friendly and I really love being around people. I am good with both kids and other pets!_

Jesus. People are bastards.

He walks slowly down the rows, stopping to look inside the cages. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for—he knows he doesn’t want a puppy, or any dog that he’ll have to train. He kind of thinks he wants a dog that’s been here for awhile, so he makes note of the little number on the cages indicating how long the dogs have been at the shelter.

He stops in front of one cage when he reads _four years_. Christ. Do shelters even keep dogs for that long? 

The mutt inside is grey and shaggy-looking, his droopy brows giving him a dejected appearance. Bucky doesn’t know much about dog breeds, but he looks about the size of a small lab to him. The dog doesn’t jump up when Bucky stops at his cage, just sits quietly and meets his gaze. 

_Hi! My owner abandoned me on the side of the road. Some nice people found me still waiting for him and took me to the shelter. I am very quiet and sweet. Some people are hesitant to take a chance on me because I need a little extra care, but I could be a special companion if you’d let me!_

“Breaks your heart, right?” 

The chipper woman who had showed Bucky into the shelter materializes beside him. Lynn, he thinks her name was.

“People just abandon pets like this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lynn says, shaking her head. “You’d be surprised at how often it happens. When they get old, when the owners move away—a lot of times when they have kids. They actually caught this guy’s owner on CCTV dumping him by the side of the road. Sometimes you just want to lose all faith in people. Charlie! C’mere, bud!”

She says the last bit while crooking a finger into the cage. Charlie blinks patiently at her, and then obligingly staggers to his feet and limps over to sniff at her hand.

“He’s been here for years because of his leg, but he’s just a big sweetie,” Lynn says, stroking at his whiskers. 

“What’s wrong with his leg?”

“We think it was a fracture that didn’t heal properly,” she answers. She looks at him quickly. “The vet said that he’ll need some extra TLC and he might always limp—a lot of people come in looking for a puppy or someone a bit, uh—faster.” 

“What’s ‘TLC’ mean here?”

“Well, he’ll be slower, like I said—he’ll probably need a similar set up to a senior dog, you know, ramps and things. It’s also possible that he might lose the leg at some point, and he might need to be put on pain meds.”

She sounds almost defensive. 

Wouldn’t it be a bit on the nose, rescuing a dog with a bad leg? 

Charlie looks between the two of them calmly. 

It’s basically a foregone conclusion.

* * *

Two weeks later, Bucky’s spent more money than he has in the past six months, buying things that he’s not sure he even needs. He’d somehow managed to talk himself into purchasing the most expensive set of everything, feeling like he’d be a cheapskate to do otherwise. He’s now got ridiculously overpriced dog food that he’s storing in his bedroom closet for want of space, three separate ramps, far too many brightly colored toys, and an actual heated dog bed. Bucky doesn’t even own a heating pad, let alone a heated blanket, but his dog’s got a whole bed. 

He’d decided to keep the name Charlie—it’s a nice enough name, and he’s not exactly a creative guy. Charlie’s comfortable with it, anyway, and isn’t that the important thing?

Bucky spends an absurd amount of time trying to determine what it is that Charlie wants to do at any given moment, surprisingly difficult given Charlie’s subdued amiability. He expects Charlie to be skittish, at first, but Charlie takes to him immediately, a quietly affectionate presence that softens the dark edges of Bucky's days just the slightest amount. Bucky dutifully takes him for walks, studying his dog’s every move and trying to gauge if his leg is hurting him. Despite the fact that he moves ponderously slow, Charlie seems to really enjoy his walks, indirectly constantly forcing Bucky to leave the quiet of his apartment.

He thinks this is how he finds himself in Central Park at the ass-crack of dawn, ambling slowly behind Charlie. He prefers being here when there aren't as many people, and it's probably good for Charlie to see nature, or something.

He kneels down to tie his shoe and feels the leash jerk out of his hands. Startled, he finishes the bow and then looks up to see Charlie limping at an uncharacteristically fast pace over to a tall man sitting hunched over on a nearby bench.

Bucky curses inwardly and hurries after him. 

Between Bucky and this hopefully sober stranger, Charlie is starting to exhibit an uncommon faith in humanity for a dog that was abandoned on the side of the road.

The man glances up as Charlie approaches. Charlie noses right into his space but to Bucky's relief, the man just lifts a hand and starts gently rubbing behind Charlie's ears.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, catching up to them and grabbing the leash. “I just stopped to tie my shoe for a second, and—”

“It’s fine,” the man interrupts, both hands scratching at Charlie’s head now. His throat sounds a little clogged. “Really, I don’t mind.”

Charlie pants happily.

Bucky hesitates. On the one hand, he wants to finish their walk—he’d gotten up this early in order to avoid having to be around other people, after all. On the other hand—

The guy is petting Charlie with a kind of fierce determination, as though the fate of the world rests on making this shaggy old mutt happy. He’s purposefully avoiding Bucky’s gaze, but from what Bucky can see of his face, his eyes are a little red-rimmed, and his expression tight. Maybe he’d gotten up this freakishly early for a reason, too.

Bucky’s not much good at consolation, though, and really, it’s none of his business, so he just stands there uncomfortably, while Charlie lolls his head in bliss. 

Finally, the man looks up. “Sorry,” he says, looking as awkward as Bucky feels. He gives Bucky a weak smile. “Just a bad day.”

Bucky shrugs, and politely doesn’t tell the guy that if his day is already shot at five in the morning, he should probably just take the rest of it off. 

“Well, you made his day, at least,” he says, gently tugging on the leash, and the guy half-smiles. Now that he’s closer, Bucky can see that he’s almost absurdly good-looking—classically handsome and clearly ripped, the kind of guy that probably doesn’t have many bad days. For some reason, he looks oddly familiar, as well. Bucky doesn’t really have friends anymore, but maybe the guy’s a model or something.

Bucky hesitates, and then, against his better judgment, asks, “You okay?” 

It’s his personal policy not to pry into anyone else’s business—especially someone who’d clearly gotten up at the crack of dawn to have a nice private mope—but something about the guy’s face tugs at some long-dormant instinct inside of Bucky.

The man huffs a faint laugh. “Honestly? Not really.”

Bucky nods and toes the ground. He’s really not good at this. He used to be.

He tries to think back to what Jeff might say to him, and draws a blank. “Work thing or a life thing?”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he winces internally, hoping the guy’s wife didn’t just die, or something. This is really none of his business.

The man’s mouth quirks up, though, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. “Both, I guess.”

Bucky nods, and then to his surprise, the man continues, “It’s just—you know. The compromises you have to make. For your job." His voice catches a little. "You ever think that maybe it’s not worth it?”

Bucky can tell that the guy is mostly talking to himself and probably doesn’t even expect an answer from him, but then, maybe the man doesn’t have a Jeff to aim his random thoughts at. 

Bucky, at least, knows a little something about compromise. 

“So quit,” Bucky suggests. Nobody deserves the kind of crushing guilt that he walks around with every day. 

The man looks up, startled. “What?”

“Quit,” Bucky repeats. “It’s just a job, right?”

The man’s staring at him like he has two heads. “Well—I…”

He trails off, looking lost.

Bucky kicks himself and finds an excuse to fiddle with Charlie’s leash. This is why he shouldn’t try to play therapist. 

“I’m sorry, that’s—I guess it’s none of my business. I just thought—sorry.”

When he chances a look back, the man is scrutinizing him, running his gaze over Bucky. Bucky sees his eyes catch and linger on the empty sleeve, but he doesn’t mention it. 

Instead, the man asks, in a surprisingly kind voice, “No, I’d like to hear it. What were you going to say?”

Bucky shrugs, feeling stupid. He doesn’t actually have any good advice to give, only that—“I don’t—I guess if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that losing your integrity is never worth it. That’s—all I got.”

The man’s face softens as he talks. When Bucky finishes, he smiles. It’s melancholy, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I appreciate it.”

Bucky just shrugs again and offers an awkward smile in return, feeling unbearably self-conscious. “Hope your day gets better.”

“Wait!”

Bucky turns back. 

The man is holding out a hand as if to freeze him in place. His startlingly blue eyes are wide.

“Yeah?”

The man stands cautiously. Charlie delightedly pushes up against his leg, and the man absently scratches at his ears. 

“Look, I don’t want to sound—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and clearly torn. 

For a crazed half-second, Bucky wonders if the man is trying to ask for his number. He briefly reconsiders his self-imposed moratorium on dates, until the man’s pained expression brings him back to reality.

Seemingly coming to a decision, the man draws himself up. Sounding suddenly formal, he says, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody about this. Please.”

Bucky frowns, nonplussed. “What?”

The man grimaces, but continues, “I know that’s not fair of me to ask, and you don’t seem—but please. It would be a big favor.”

Bucky mentally replays their interaction. As far as he knows, he’d been walking his dog at an ungodly hour through Central Park, and he’d run into an incredibly hot guy who may or may not have been crying on a bench. He’d let the guy pet his dog for all of three minutes, and then they’d talked about how shitty work can be. Even if he had anyone to tell, this is hardly breaking news.

Unless—

Bucky squints at the man. He’d initially thought that he’d looked familiar, and now that he’s looking for it, Bucky does recognize him from somewhere. He’s probably some kind of —“Should I know you?”

The man looks surprised for a second, and then winces. “Uh—yeah.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t look Bucky in the eye as he hastily mutters, “I’m kind of Captain America.”

Bucky’s stomach drops.

He’s pictured this for so long—the chance to stand in front of the Avengers and to tell them to go straight to hell. He’s practiced his angry monologue in the shower for months on end. This man—this _asshole_ and his stupid _fucking_ team—destroyed Bucky’s life, and ended the lives of six courageous men. Their families had buried empty fucking caskets because there wasn’t enough left to scrape up of Bucky’s squadron to send back to them, and here’s Captain America trying to make sure that Bucky doesn’t embarrass him on TMZ.

Now that he’s got the opportunity, he suddenly can’t speak. His mouth works but he says nothing, just stares like a coward and watches Captain America’s high cheekbones flush faintly pink.

For just a second, a violent red wave crests over Bucky and he wants nothing more than to put his fist through Captain America’s beautiful face. He battles the urge to punch and rip and tear, wanting him to feel the pain that Bucky feels every goddamn fucking day—even just for a fucking second, he should have to hurt as badly as Bucky does.

But there’s nothing he can do. He’d be hilariously outclassed even with two working arms.

Just as quickly as it had surged up, the violent impulse recedes, leaving blessed self-preservation in its wake. He needs to get out of here before Captain America recognizes him. Do the Avengers even know that he’s here, in the same city? He’s not really doing anything wrong, just semi-existing in the same space and quietly despising them—he doesn’t _think_ that’s a violation of the NDA, he hadn’t exactly read it top to bottom, but still—

“It’s fine,” he says hoarsely. He can’t look—fuck, Captain fucking America in the eyes. “I won’t say anything.”

To his surprise, Captain America’s face crumples. For just a moment, he looks so heartbreakingly miserable that Bucky almost forgets that this man is likely directly responsible for murdering the only family he’d had left.

He reminds himself that Captain America’s façade of sincerity is a good part of the reason that nobody questions the inherent righteousness of the whole sorry Avengers show.

“I’m sorry,” Captain America says, closing his eyes, and for a horrible second Bucky thinks he’s going to tear up. He has no idea what he’d do with a crying Captain America on his hands.

Captain America visibly pulls himself together and looks Bucky right in the eye as he repeats, his voice firmer, “I’m sorry, I—of course you won’t. I mean, it wouldn’t matter if you did. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky repeats. Despite himself, his breathing is starting to pick up, right alongside a wave of dizziness. Distantly, he thinks about his last session with Jeff. The last thing he needs is to have a panic attack in front of Captain Fucking America. “I gotta—”

He jerks his thumb vaguely, and then spins, tugging Charlie along with him. 

He thinks that Captain America calls after him, but he can’t make it out over the blood roaring in his ears. By some miracle, he manages to stumble back to his apartment and sinks to the floor.

He doesn’t _think_ it’s a panic attack—at least, at no point does he actually thinks he’s dying, but it's still plenty bad, whatever it is. The world spins around him and his heart beats wildly and he grips the floor, trying to anchor himself against the maelstrom. 

All things considered, the incident is over fairly quickly, which is itself something like a disappointment—even his almost-panic attacks are half-hearted. When it’s done, he doesn’t get up—he just lies on the floor and stares at nothing for what seems like hours, only belatedly realizing that Charlie is whining and nudging at him artlessly. 

Poor Charlie isn’t trained for this, but Bucky has subjected him to it anyway. He should have just sucked it up and got a service dog. Charlie probably thinks he’s dying, and has no clue how to help him.

Blearily, he raises a hand and places his palm between Charlie’s ears, scratching slowly. Charlie lowers himself awkwardly down beside Bucky on the floor and leans against him. 

Bucky doesn’t cry, although he thinks he might feel better if he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Hardcore cynicism, judgmental people, strong language, and violence. A layman's terribly poor understanding of special forces and clandestine ops.

Steve drapes a towel around his sopping neck and heads for the elevators. There are a few dedicated gyms in the top floors of the Tower, all equipped with specially reinforced equipment designed to give him an actual workout. These days, he prefers to use it late at night, when there’s less of a chance of running into anyone. 

His apartment is egregiously large and on the same floor as Sam’s, although at the other end of the building. He spends a lot of time here out of necessity—he’s recognized on the street more often than not, and even in New York he regularly gets approached.

About a week ago, he’d somehow managed to stumble into conversation with a guy who miraculously hadn’t recognized him at all. In retrospect, he thinks it might have been the first candid conversation he’s had in years, if only because he’d been at the end of his rope and unable to stop himself from blurting out the misgivings rattling around in his head. 

Once he’d realized what he’d done, he’d heard Christina’s voice in his head and tried to _salvage the situation_ , and had only managed to spoil a rare moment of genuineness. Later, he’d vacillated between kicking himself for his stupidity—what did he think the poor guy was going to do, sell hearsay to a tabloid?—and cringing every time he passed a magazine stand, sure that he’d see a blazing headline declaring that _Captain America Wants to Quit!_

The door to his apartment is locked as usual, and the lights are off, as he’d left them, but somehow he knows that he’s not alone. It’s the tiny exhalation of breath in the stillness, inaudible to anyone but him. He tenses automatically, sweeping his gaze over the apartment, before his eye catches on the figure curled up on the couch.

His heart leaps into his throat before he realizes that it’s Natasha.

Of course. 

“Little dramatic, don’t you think?” he asks, forcing himself to sound casual. He flicks on the light.

Nat blinks in the sudden brightness of the room. She’s dressed casually, for once, in jeans and an artfully threadbare t-shirt, and he wonders again at how impressive it is that she can manage to look so soft and harmless. 

“Hello to you, too, stranger,” she says. She primly tucks a tendril of red hair behind her ear and crosses her ankles. 

He ignores her and heads for the Keurig. He drinks for the taste, since the caffeine doesn’t affect him. More importantly, he needs something to do with his hands while he waits her out. Natasha likes to keep him off balance, but he thinks he’s mostly worked out how to handle her. She favors long silences and suggestive glances, and when that doesn’t work she flashes bits of real intimacy as a last resort.

He can never quite tell if she’s doing it on purpose or not, and it makes him feel like the over-credulous fool they sometimes treat him as. At times, he can’t help but run his mind back over that day they’d sat in Sam’s bedroom, tired and hunted, and she’d cracked open her cool exterior for him. He can’t help but search his memory for some sign that she’d been playing him, even then. Mostly, he’s decided that the moment had been genuine—she’d had no reason for prevarication, not then—but it’s likely that even then, that small part of her brain she’ll never quite be able to shut off had filed his reaction away for reference. 

He’s never been quite sure of her motives for coming to see him after Peggy’s funeral. Not long after their talk, he’d finally agreed to sign the Accords, after all.

“Want to tell me why you’re sitting here in the dark?”

“It wasn’t dark when I got here.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember asking you up,” he says, glancing at her. 

She shrugs, unrepentant. “Maybe that super-soldier memory’s finally starting to go.”

“I wish.”

She crooks a smile. 

“So why are you really here?”

She rolls her shoulders casually. “Sam says you’ve lost your school spirit.”

Must be the topic of the month. 

He flashes an irritated glance. “So you’re talking about me, now?”

It’s token indignation. They all have their secrets, but not by design. Once, when an old song on his record player had jogged a memory, he’d gone poking through the nooks and crannies in his apartment, mostly out of boredom. He hadn’t really been surprised when his idle search turned up half a dozen bugs. He’d thought about confronting Tony, but—honestly, what’s the point? If the government wants to listen to him cycle through the documentaries on Netflix, he doesn’t really care.

That, and Tony would apologize, claim that he had no idea—despite the fact that FRIDAY is aware of all surveillance technology within the building—and then they’d just be replaced, anyway. It’s probably how they’ve chosen to interpret some condition of the Accords, which he understands, vaguely, to mandate the _monitoring of enhanced individuals_.

She purses her lips. “I’d like to be talking _to_ you, Steve.”

He looks at her. Her eyes are wide and guileless, and her soft, casual outfit is probably a tactical choice. She wants him to open up to her.

He could talk to Natasha, maybe. He could tell her that being thrust back into the limelight makes him feel like a fraud, just as he did on that USO tour; that affecting charm and pomposity makes him feel small and mean in a scrabbly kind of way that brings memories of being over a foot shorter. She’ll undoubtedly understand it better than Sam would. 

Still, he can’t know whom she’s reporting back to. It’s entirely possible that she and Sam really are just concerned about him, but it’s almost as likely that Tony’s sent her to get his toes back up on the company line. 

“I’m fine,” he says, after a beat of silence.

She sighs. “No, you’re not, and we’re worried about you.”

Despite everything, he can feel his temper rising. “Worried about me?” he asks sarcastically. “I’m polling higher than ever, didn’t you see the numbers?”

“Stop acting like I’m the enemy, here,” she says, her own eyes flashing. “We’re on the same side, Steve. I can tell that you’ve been—having a hard time, but I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

It’s an implicit threat, but he’s not exactly sure of what. It’s something that’s been running through his mind ever since that encounter in the park—what would happen if he just quits? 

Unbidden, he thinks of Clint. 

“ _Steve_.”

He slams the mug down with more force than necessary and turns to face her. “I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me,” he says, letting the bitterness creep into his tone.

“Begrudgingly.”

“Does that matter?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, her jaw clenching impatiently. “It does. Because everyone knows you didn’t want to sign the Accords, so they’re watching you more closely than the rest of us. If it looks like you’re not committed—”

“That was three years ago.”

“Yeah, and right now,” she leans forward, “They need to know that you’re still on board. Election year’s coming up and we don’t want to give the press a reason to make us seem controversial. Among other things.”

She looks at him significantly.

He frowns. He’s not sure if she’s trying to tell him something—she probably knows the apartment is bugged, but if she wants to tell him something clandestine, there are far easier ways to get it across than relying on his ability to read her mind.

He’s about to root around for a pen and pad, but she looks away and the moment passes. 

After a beat, she murmurs, “You _can_ talk to me, you know.”

Again he considers just telling her all about the massing guilt that’s been threatening to consume him lately. Admittedly, he hadn’t gone over the Accords with a fine-toothed comb, but the idea of willingly making himself a tool of the government not two years after Project Insight had set off all his internal alarms. More than that—his faith has always been in people, not institutions. That’s what the Avengers were, back then. Just—a group of people. Flawed and larger than life, sure; gods and monsters and playboy billionaire philanthropists, but in the end, they were all just _people_ trying to do some good.

Signing the Accords had felt like signing away everything he stood for, but the weeks leading up to the event itself had almost been worse. Persistent doubt had grown steadily inside his gut until his misgivings had threatened to overtake him entirely, and he’d almost backed out half a dozen times. Wanda had been terrified, and Sam had been ready to bolt, and Tony had blamed Steve for everyone’s hesitation.

After a week of threats and shouting matches and heartfelt pleas, when things had been on the verge of getting really ugly, he’d gotten the text that Peggy had passed. 

In his heart, he knows that that was the day he’d given in. He’d been sitting alone in the pew after the funeral. The Accords were days away, and he still hadn’t made up his mind. Natasha had appeared, as was her wont, and sat beside him for a long time.

 _Just because it's the path of least resistance doesn't mean it's the wrong path_ , she’d said. _Staying together is more important than how we stay together_.

He still doesn’t know if he’d made the right call—hell, he’s increasingly sure he hadn’t—but he knows why he did it, and he’s not proud. Once Peggy was gone, there was truly no one left from the life that had been ripped away from him. He’d felt shattered, and drained, and just for a moment, every one of his ninety-something years. Even a few years earlier, he might have pulled on that nagging thread of misgiving that had refused to let him be—perhaps he might even have come up with something concrete, some righteous reason to preclude his signing.

Instead, for the first time in his life, he’d stopped fighting. 

He thinks, in the end, that maybe he just didn’t want to be alone. 

He’s felt strangely resigned ever since. Only lately has he started to chafe against his role, but each roused vestige of old restlessness is short-lived. He still feels too exhausted to fight against—what, exactly? The commercialization of heroism? Every day, the PR machine expands and Stark’s stock price climbs and Steve just goes along with all of it, too spent to fight against the tide.

With a tired sigh, Steve sinks onto a counter stool. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I guess I don’t know what else I can do, besides what they tell me. Christina’s always talking about _building my brand_ , but I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to be.”

“It’s exactly what you think, Steve,” Natasha says, sounding almost as weary as he feels. “Apple-pie, baseball, and supporting the troops. Pick a cause near and dear and get enthusiastic.”

“Just—pick a cause. Just like that.”

“Do you want me to cut your crusts for you, too?” she hisses, clearly at the end of her rope. “Veteran homelessness. The advanced prosthetics program. PTSD—Tony’s got that self-therapy holographic thing they’re trying to market. _Figure it out_ , Steve.”

He looks at her and thinks that maybe he’s not the only one tired of the PR grind.

“You’re right,” he says finally.

She looks surprised, and then her eyes narrow. “Just like that,” she says flatly.

Steve shrugs, and puts all his effort into looking guileless. Natasha is a master at this, and she’ll probably see through him, but—well, he’s had a lot of practice at this, lately.

“If I’m gonna do this, I might as well do it right. Right?”

Long after she leaves and he’s gone to bed, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. Maybe Natasha is right. After all, what else is he going to do with his life if he stops being Captain America? Sit around and collect his pension? It’s not like before—he can’t just rejoin up with SHIELD as a field agent, or effect any real change on his own.

He doesn’t really know how to do anything else.

* * *

* * *

Bucky’s been feeling paranoid ever since his run-in with Captain America last week. Even though he’s fairly sure he hadn’t been clocked, his reaction must have seemed suspicious, or at least noteworthy. He can’t afford to be on the Avengers radar even if he isn’t actually _doing_ anything. Maybe they’ll suspect that the meeting hadn’t been coincidental—or maybe they simply think that it’s been long enough that nobody will notice if he disappears. Every time Bucky notices a car slowing as it approaches, or catches a bystander looking at him just a little too long, he automatically goes on high alert, every muscle in his body tensing.

It’s starting to shred his nerves, to the point where he almost longs for the comfortable numbness of the last six months. The only silver lining is that his anxiety is paradoxically motivating him to get out more, if only to release his pent-up adrenaline. Between his time spent walking Charlie and trying to burn off his probably overblown sense of unease, over the past week he’s actually started to cultivate a bona fide tan.

At first, he’d tried running without his prosthesis. It had proven surprisingly difficult absent of the automatic swing of his left arm, and he’s begrudgingly decided to return to PT, at least until he gets it down. Today, he’s compromised with a fast walk. Although he has to go out of his way to do it, he instinctively gives the section of the park where he’d found Captain America moping a wide berth. He sure the guy will have gone back to sulking in his undoubtedly luxurious penthouse, but Bucky’s not taking any chances, just in case. 

The incident has even caused him to toy with the idea of leaving the city for good, something he’d have considered blasphemy at one point in time. Between Fort Bragg and deployment, he’s spent more time outside of New York than not, but the city has always been lodged in the back of his mind as the ultimate idea of “home”. It’s always been the place where he thought he’d spend the rest of his days, if he ever made it to retirement—he’s never had a desire to live anywhere else. 

Sure, living in the epicenter of Avengers fever hasn’t exactly been ideal, but he’d rationalized that he’d easily vanish in a town of almost nine million. Running into Captain America had been a brutal reminder that the city can sometimes be a lot smaller than he thinks. 

Of course, if he’s going to do it, he’ll do it with the assumption that he _is_ being watched. He’s got one or two contacts left that he thinks he might trust enough to help him out, but Bucky knows enough about tradecraft that he can probably disappear even without their help. Even more than the SEALS, Delta operate in conditions of almost complete anonymity. No high-and-tights, and no outward indicia of military—they’d even sanded away his ingrained habit of addressing all personnel by their rank. Instead, the operators had been encouraged to call each other by nicknames, to avoid anyone’s identity accidentally slipping out. He'd been "Bucky" almost exclusively—he’s pretty sure that at one point, he’d gone years at a stretch without anyone ever calling him “James.”

Delta is so highly classified that they’d probably buried Bucky’s record somewhere and redacted anything left of import, just to be sure. Someone with access and insight might clock that he was Special Forces of some kind, but Bucky’s fairly sure that most civilians would simply find an innocuous service record and not think to look any closer. Then, too, Delta often works directly with the CIA as a strike force arm. Bucky’d had a vague sense that there’d been some fierce inter-departmental rivalry with SHIELD, back when SHIELD was still a thing, and in any case he’d never sensed any love lost between the Agency and the Avengers.

The CIA had been the ones who’d set the doomed Syria operation in motion. Bucky’s turned it over and over in his mind, and he thinks that there are three probable explanations for what had happened. 

First, it’s remotely possible that the entire affair had been an accident, and that the Avengers and the Agency had commenced completely independent operations and ran straight into each other. Bucky doesn’t really think this is likely. From what he can tell, the Avengers are contract, not strict military—glorified Blackwater. Anyone having access to the sort of intelligence necessary to send the Avengers to Syria would have known about the Delta mission in the first place. 

Another possibility is that the Avengers had wanted to swoop in and claim the credit, and it had all gone wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time, either—back in 2017, he knows, a DEVGRU SEAL team had parachuted into the ocean under cover of night to rescue a number of American and Australian hostages in on a container ship hijacked by Somali pirates. After almost forty-eight hours, the SEALS had been on the painstakingly wrought cusp of victory when the Avengers had suddenly and noisily appeared out of nowhere, saving the day in their usual unsubtle fashion before flying everyone back on the ever-popular quinjet, to general fanfare and adulation. 

The official story, of course, is that the ostensibly hapless SEALS had asked for the assist. 

It’s definitely Avengers fame-seeking M.O., but it’s also an unlikely scenario. From what Bucky understands, the entire point of the Sokovia Accords had been to stop the Avengers from playing World Police without explicit invitation from the UN or from the host country itself. 

_Pirates_ is one thing. Classified, political, high-level target extraction is quite another. 

The most likely possibility is that the Avengers had been specifically sent to intercept Bucky’s team, for whatever reason. He’s not sure it’s safe to think about why.

Everyone involved had in the whole sorry affair had clearly been strong-armed into silence, but Bucky can’t imagine that command—or the CIA—would have been very happy about it. He also doesn’t think they’d have been overly helpful cleaning up the ensuing mess, and despite the fact that Stark Industries has undoubtedly got his NDA stashed away somewhere, he clings to the small hope that he’s since slipped through the cracks, just another faceless casualty of the Avengers and their heroism.

Of course, he doesn’t know how far the Avengers’ reach goes. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumps when he hears the sudden voice behind him, too close for comfort.

“You got a light, man?”

Bucky turns, trying to steady his nerves. 

He sees a man of about his age, with a cadaverously thin face shadowed by a scraggly beard. Judging from the layered, stained clothes and his generally dirty appearance, the man is likely homeless. 

Addict, Bucky thinks, looking at the bloodshot eyes and telltale scabs. 

“I’m a vet,” the man adds. His low voice grates harshly as it scrapes out of his throat. The man might be lying for sympathy, but there’s no real reason to think so.

Bucky feels a stab of sympathy, followed by unease. The man’s gaze is disquietingly intense. Distantly, Bucky is relieved that he’d left Charlie at home.

“Sorry, man,” Bucky answers, trying to step back imperceptibly. “I don’t smoke.”

The vet’s red eyes narrow. “What do you mean, you don’t _fucking_ smoke?” he snarls, his face twisting suddenly in violent rage.

Bucky raises his palm in appeal, taking a step back. “Just what I said,” he says. He keeps his voice light and easy, but in truth, he’s a bit spooked by the sudden mood-swing.

“Everything alright over there?” 

The deep voice calling from somewhere behind him sounds oddly familiar, but Bucky doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the vet.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, speaking more to the vet than the anonymous passerby. “Let’s just go on our separate ways, alright, man?”

The vet glares at him, arms frozen akimbo, his face distorted in inexplicable wrath.

Bucky takes another step back, and the vet suddenly has a knife in his hand.

The vet doesn’t telegraph his movements, but Bucky’s instincts are hardwired. He dodges the thrust automatically but the vet is far quicker and stronger than he has any right to be, and he goes straight for Bucky’s left.

Ordinarily, Bucky would try to side-step the lunge while bringing his left arm down to deflect the blade away. He might still be grazed, but he’d avoid the worst of it. The problem is that his ingrained movements are borne of years with a left arm.

Now, though, the world slows as he blinks dazedly at the blade sticking out of his abdomen, pulled right out of the vet’s hand by the twist of his torso. He has a brief moment of mechanical assessment— _kidney, spleen, colon_ —before the vet is springing at him again.

Bucky throws himself backwards but the vet moves like quicksilver. He’s on Bucky in seconds and they both go down, the vet’s weight driving the knife deeper into Bucky’s gut, stabbing _one, two, three_ , and then the knife is abandoned and shockingly strong, calloused hands are squeezing Bucky’s throat like a vice. Bucky knows how to break a hold but he needs two arms to do it, so he drives his right thumb towards the vet’s eye but the vet’s face is moving away, up, out of his reach, and the air returns to Bucky’s lungs as the vet impossibly lifts off into the air, his eyes bulging in rage and his hands still grasping for Bucky’s throat. Bucky closes his eyes and heaves in a breath.

Now that the adrenaline has faded, telltale heat rushes in to the wound. Bucky’s been stabbed before, but never this badly, and he feels blood draining from his face. He moves stiff fingers to the wound and pulls them away wet. He hopes that whoever—or whatever—had pulled the vet off of him has a cell phone, because he’s starting to feel faint.

He pictures Charlie, and then wishes he hadn’t. The walls of Bucky’s apartment are paper-thin, but Charlie is so quiet that Bucky doesn’t know if his neighbors will hear him.

From far away he hears shouting, and then there’s someone bending over him, trying to get him to— _keep your eyes open, hey, c’mon, you gotta_ —stay awake, and his last thought is of how pointless it all was, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out -- a bit more morose than intended, but it'll lighten up soon (relatively)!
> 
> Comments are appreciated! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D Hope you enjoy!

Bucky wakes up to telltale beeping and a throbbing pain in his side and the familiar sensation of cotton filling his head that signifies painkillers. Automatically, he moves his hand to the site of the ache to find what must thick dressing. Right. He’d been stabbed. 

He rubs his hand over his face, trying to clear his head. Whoever had pulled that junkie off of him must have hailed an ambulance in record time, because the last thing Bucky recalls is the very dark stain rapidly spreading across his shirt. The thing that movies almost always get wrong is how bright red blood really is, at least when it’s first shed. That merlot color only sets in if the wound is perilously deep, or enough of it starts to pool together.

Bucky is intimately familiar with the sight.

He blinks muzzily, and then suddenly jerks wide awake as the room resolves into focus. He’s been in a few hospitals in his life, and while none of them were what you’d call top-of-the-line, there’s a certain recognizable sameness to each room. White bed, white walls, the pervasive smell of antiseptic and those uncomfortable, plastic visitor’s chairs.

This is no hospital room. 

Instead, he’s surrounded by glass and chrome and monitor displays. Gleaming futuristic instruments crowd every available surface. His bed seems standard enough, except for the sturdy metal half-loop that arcs over his torso. The underside of the apparatus features two silver, nozzle-like appendages. 

It’s possible that he’s been abducted by the starship _Enterprise_.

He looks down at himself. No shirt and no shoes to be seen, but he’s still got his pants, so that’s something. There’s a smaller bandage across the back of his hand that he’s guessing indicates a recent IV, probably for a blood transfusion. 

Jesus, how long has he been here?

He looks at the monitor closest to him and sees a slowly revolving hologram of a torso missing an arm, rendered in glowing, almost cellular detail.

What the fuck.

“Mr. Barnes, hello,” a light voice calls from the doorway. 

He stiffens as a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a lab coat breezes inside. 

Her smile is brief and professional. “Welcome back. I’m Dr. Helen Cho. I’m sure this must all be very confusing to you, but I can assure you that you’re perfectly safe here. Someone will be along very soon to explain it all to you much better than I can. I'm not sure what you remember, but you were stabbed in Central Park and I’m afraid that it was quite a close call. Do you have any family that you’d like us to call for you?”

“Where am I?” 

He winces as his voice comes out in a low rasp. 

“Avengers Tower, medical wing,” she says, bending forward to peer at the monitor closest to his bed, and his blood turns to ice. “You’ve been out for almost five hours, but most of that is due to the painkillers we gave you.”

The steady beeping of what must be a heart-rate monitor starts to pick up, betraying him as he fights to keep the encroaching panic off his face. 

“What—how did I get here?”

She glances at him. “Captain Rogers brought you in,” she says smoothly. “I admit this is quite—unorthodox—but he correctly assessed that you would likely bleed out if routed to a civilian hospital. He saved your life.”

Bucky tries to struggle to a more upright position, and then hisses as he feels a sharp heat in his side.

Dr. Cho is instantly at his side, her firm hand pushing down on his shoulder. “Just lay back, please,” she says patiently. “Most of your tissue is bonding as expected, but you’ve got—” she checks her watch, “—at least another hour before I feel comfortable letting you out and about.”

He sinks back. “Bonding?” he asks, feeling dazed.

“Near instantaneous nano-molecular regeneration,” she supplies absently, placing a hand briefly on the metal half-circle. “All you really need to know is that it’s creating new tissue. You’ll be good as new by the end of the day.”

Nano-molecular regeneration. 

_Avengers Tower._

He’d been innocently brainstorming ways to leave the city unnoticed, and instead he’d somehow ended up right in the lion’s den.

Dr. Cho pays him no attention as he glances around. Captain America must have been the one who’d pulled the homeless vet off of him, and that makes sense, since the vet had been disturbingly strong (and really, what are the odds of running into Steve fucking Rogers twice in the space of a fortnight?) Bucky hadn’t seen anyone else around at the time, but getting him here must have been a noisy affair and there’s no way the Avengers aren’t going to pass up an opportunity to capitalize on _Captain America saves hapless citizen while out on his daily walk through Central Park!_

It’s perfect, really—a one-two punch of fear-mongering—crazed homeless murderers lurk everywhere, _no one is safe!_ —and an emphatic statement about the importance of the Avengers, even in one's every day life. Every resident of New York is going to read this story and automatically place themselves in Bucky's shoes. He doubts that they could have planned it better if they tried.

He’s guessing that what happens next will be exactly like what had happened the first time around; he’ll be accosted by a lawyer bearing ominous forms. Then they’ll probably want him to participate in some kind of statement, assuming that he’ll be enthusiastic or at least appreciative enough to agree—whatever _nano-molecular tissue_ is, it's probably not cheap.

“So, uh—what happens now? I mean after I’m—good to go.”

“Oh,” Dr. Cho says, a slight crease appearing between her eyes. “Well, that’s not really my—area, I suppose. I informed Captain Rogers that you'd woken up, so I expect that he’ll be down to see you any moment now. I’ll wait here with you until then, if you don’t mind.”

He lies still as she pokes at various monitors and then prods gently at the area around his bandages. She seems satisfied with whatever she finds, because she quickly bustles away. He hears her softly working somewhere outside of his field of vision.

He stays flat on his back, trying to gather his thoughts, which float away from him like snatches of cloud. This is hardly the worst position he’s ever found himself in—as far as he knows, no one's even actively trying to kill him, yet. 

Still, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that he’s in imminent danger, and automatically, he runs his options in his head.

Avengers Tower is one of the largest buildings in New York and is undoubtedly crammed full of the best security—human and technological—money can buy. He’s likely being monitored right now, and they’ve already got his name—likely from the cellphone that’s missing from the pocket of his jeans. He’s willing to be that they’ve already run a facial-recognition scan on him, too. He’s not sure if his army biometric data would have been redacted by Delta, but he’s willing to bet that the Avengers’ database includes anyone with a driver’s license, and he’s certainly got that. Whether they’ll be able to match it up is another matter entirely— _James Barnes_ isn’t exactly an uncommon name—but the name alone might be enough to get him flagged. 

And then, of course, there’s the small matter of how exactly he'd be able to fight his way out of a building full of super-powered beings drugged to the gills and down an arm. 

He sinks back into the bed, resigned. Running into Captain America again had been just another horrible coincidence, but will they see it that way? ‘Three times is enemy action’, after all. Bucky’s best hope is to talk his way out of here before they dig a little deeper and figure out exactly who he is. 

He knows that he’ll have to appear as normal and unmemorable as possible, and that’ll mean a solid veneer of _nice_ and _grateful_. _Fawning_ would be best—it’ll probably put Captain America right in his comfort zone—but he’s not sure he can work up to it in the state he’s in. Nothing’s more likely to raise suspicions than seemingly inexplicable hostility from a man who’s just been saved by Captain America himself. 

The thought of playing nice eats at him. He wonders what would happen if he just lets them have it—tells him exactly what he thinks of them, throws the whole sorry mess in their faces. 

They’d probably still let him leave the Tower; undoubtedly, there’ll already have been a big media blitz about Captain America’s latest good deed (and this one organic, to boot!). And then—who knows? He still doesn’t know what they’d been doing in Syria in the first place, but it can’t have been anything good. He remembers the warning in Lieutenant Anders’s eyes when Bucky had gone to see him, after.

 _Don’t tug on that thread, Barnes_ , he’d said. _You don’t want to know_.

There are few things that a hardened Delta operator shies from, and it isn’t a stretch to think that Bucky might be on very thin ice right now.

Ten minutes pass before he hears a tentative knock on the door. 

“C’mon in!” Dr. Cho calls.

The door opens to reveal Captain America, wearing a hesitant smile and a plain white t-shirt stretched to its limits. 

“Hi, Steve,” Dr. Cho says, her smile much warmer now. “He’s all ready for you.”

“I can see that,” the Captain says, looking at Bucky. “Thanks so much, Helen.”

She looks pleased. “Anything for you, Steve.” 

She walks over to Bucky, and flicks a few switches on the side of the bed. Bucky hears a faint electrical whine as the metal circlet disconnects in the middle, the disjointed ends retreating back into the bed. “It was very nice to meet you, James.”

She leaves, the door shutting softly behind her.

The Captain looks at Bucky, his face open. “Hey,” he says gently, like Bucky is a spooked animal. “I’m Steve Rogers. How are you feeling?”

“James,” Bucky replies, knowing that Steve probably already knows that. He cautiously eases up to a half-sitting position and attempts to school his expression into something approximating gratitude. “I’m, uh—alive.”

The Captain smiles, his handsome face creasing. “Just barely,” he says lightly, his eyes flicking down to linger on Bucky’s stomach.

Abruptly, Bucky remembers that he’s shirtless, and has to stop himself from trying to cover up the stump. It’s not that he’s self-conscious about it, exactly; he just doesn’t want to look more defenseless than he already is. “Thanks to you,” he says. “You—you saved my life. I can’t thank you enough.”

He winces internally at his robotic tone, but the Captain seems to buy it. He brightens a little, waving off Bucky’s thanks. “I’m just glad I was there,” he says, his chin jutting out proudly. 

Inwardly, Bucky rolls his eyes, but he puts all his effort into making his answering smile look sincere.

The Captain hesitates, and then eases into the metal chair next to Bucky’s bedside. His expression is suddenly serious.

Bucky blinks at him, completely out of his depth. Now what the hell is he supposed to do? Tell him he’s a big fan? 

“Listen.” The Captain looks down, inexplicably nervous. He puts his hands at his side, and then brings them back up to twist in front of him, resting his forearms on his knees. “I wasn’t able to—see, I remembered you, from—that morning, and I went back, but I couldn’t find, uh. I couldn’t find your dog.”

Bucky’s mind is blank for a second and then he remembers—when Captain America had first met him, he’d had Charlie with him. He’d probably thought that Bucky had been out walking him again.

Captain America looks back up at him, and he looks so honestly wretched that Bucky can’t help but put him out of his misery, even if it is feigned. 

“No, he’s fine—he’s at home,” he says, watching as the clouds part from the Captain’s face. “I was by myself.”

It’s fascinating, really—the naked sincerity in that look of relief. Bucky can’t quite square it with what he knows about the Captain, unless he’s a much better actor than his PSAs have led Bucky to believe. Begrudgingly, Bucky reminds himself that it’s quite possible—probable, even—that the Captain really had been worried about Charlie. 

Even Hitler had been a dog-lover, after all.

Bucky hesitates, and then adds, “But—thank you for looking for him.”

The Captain half-smiles and looks down. “No problem.”

The Captain’s words sink in then—he remembers Bucky from that day in the park. 

Shit.

How the hell is Bucky going to explain his reaction? Nerves, maybe?

“I'm sorry for not recognizing you earlier,” he says quickly, hoping to get out ahead of it. Maybe the Captain will just chalk it up to nerves. “I just—I guess I didn’t expect to run into one of the Avengers on a random walk, you know?”

The Captain looks at him for a long moment. “Don’t apologize,” he says finally. “It was...nice not to be recognized, for once.”

He looks down. “Actually, I felt pretty bad about it all, afterwards. Treating you like that, I mean.”

“Oh, no, that’s—” 

“It’s not,” the Captain interrupts, and there it is—that intense blue gaze that Bucky sees smoldering at him from the cover of every magazine in the checkout line. “I was wrong. I was—” he laughs ruefully, “Kind of an ass, actually. This isn’t an excuse or anything, but you’d be surprised at how careful we have to be about—you know. Image.”

He twists his hands in his lap.

“I bet,” Bucky says, trying to keep the venom out of his voice. He knows all about how careful the Avengers are to keep up their façade. What he doesn’t get is why Captain America is telling him about it now. 

More importantly, how exactly is he supposed to be reacting to this? What’s the angle he needs to play here? 

“Down-to-earth authenticity”, maybe, but he finds that _refreshing honesty_ is a novelty that quickly wears off for big egos. _Flattery_ is still more in the Captain’s wheelhouse, despite his protestations to the contrary.

“But I do appreciate what you said,” the Captain continues. “I mean—well, I was just having a bad day. You know. But still—it was kind of you to talk to me.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. No problem.”

They sit in unbearably awkward silence for another moment. Bucky is exasperated, and a bit bewildered—doesn’t this guy visit Make-A-Wish kids weekly? Surely he should be better at bedside small talk. This uncharacteristic awkwardness is starting to put Bucky on hyper-alert.

“So, uh,” Bucky says, a little desperately, “What happened to the guy—?”

“Oh,” the Captain says, clearly startled. “Taken into custody. I don’t remember the exact precinct, but we have direct contacts with the NYPD, so I can find out.”

Of course.

“Guessing you didn’t know him?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Never seen him before in my life. Was just taking a walk to clear my head and he fixated on me, I guess.”

He said he was a vet, Bucky doesn’t add, because he doesn’t want Captain America thinking about the military.

Captain America shakes his head. “Well, I’m sorry it happened to you. I can arrange it for you if you’d like to fill out a report?”

“That’s okay,” Bucky says. He’s got no intention of drawing this out any longer than it needs to be.

Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say. Captain America’s mouth dips sideways and his brows pull together in a frown. “He might do that to someone else, you know.”

Bucky shrugs, looking down and trying to hide the sudden surge of anger he feels at the didactic tone. “Sorry, you’re right. I—I’ll think about it.”

Of course he’s not going to actually press charges. He doesn’t really care enough to go through the hassle in the first place, but more importantly, police reports are easily FOIA-ed. Even if an interview hasn’t already been arranged for him, the media will be on him like gnats on shit.

The Captain’s face eases. “Sorry. I know this must all seem so—weird—to you.”

Bucky shrugs again. “It’s fine.”

“Is it? I might know a little something about waking up in strange places.”

Bucky looks at him. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

The stare at each other for a long moment, and then Bucky looks away, clearing his throat.

“Listen, I really, really appreciate all this, but am I allowed to leave, or—?”

The Captain actually laughs briefly, his shoulders easing a bit. “Yeah, of course,” he says, crooking a smile at Bucky. “But I actually wanted to talk to you about something else, first.”

Bucky feels a flash of panic.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” The Captain echoes, now looking slightly uncomfortable. 

Shit. 

Bucky’s heart-rate monitor starts to pick up again and Bucky almost rips it right off of his chest. It’s like being hooked up to an obnoxiously loud polygraph, and it would probably be hilarious if his life wasn’t literally at stake. He tries to breathe as deeply and slowly as possible without being too obvious about it, praying to whatever deity is listening that the Captain doesn’t notice. 

Luckily, the Captain isn’t even looking at him. “Oh, first—” he says, digging around in his pockets, “Almost forgot.”

Like magic, he produces Bucky’s cellphone. It’s the oldest model iPhone that still works. 

The Captain looks sheepish. “Found it your pocket when we brought you in—I’ve got the rest of your clothes, too. I hope you don’t mind—it was sort of touch-and-go there for a minute, for you, so I had your phone unlocked.”

Bucky can only imagine the invasive technology they must keep around here.

“I didn’t seen an emergency contact number—is there someone you’d like to call? Someone who can pick you up, maybe?”

Stomach dropping, Bucky shakes his head. “I can get a ride.” Most of the operative contacts in his phone these days are service providers and Jeff—he doesn’t even have a direct line to command anymore, although they undoubtedly know his. There’s one contact that he shouldn’t have, but he guesses she’s long-since changed it by now.

He still can’t bring himself to delete the numbers from his old team. 

Admitting that he’s basically alone in life makes him feel mean and sour. Sure, _he_ knows that he’s pathetic—that doesn’t mean he wants Captain America to know it, too.

When he looks back, Captain America is watching him closely. “You’re military, right?”

“Ex,” Bucky corrects automatically, his stomach dropping. “How’d you guess that?”

He tries to maintain a neutral expression, his thoughts racing. If the Captain had already known who he was, he probably wouldn’t be asking if Bucky was military—he would already know it. It’s possible that he’s trying to put Bucky off-balance, or catch him in a lie, but why go through the trouble?

The Captain just shrugs. “We recognize our own, I guess. When’d you get out?”

In the Rangers, Bucky had worn the same high and tight as everyone else, but Delta keeps their hair long, to blend in with civilians. Most don’t wear it as long as he does, though—due solely to apathy, it’s now reaching past his chin.

Grimly, he resolves to hack it off as soon as he can get his hands on something sharp, but that doesn’t solve the immediate problem before him. He’s no expert, but he doesn’t think there’s any way a standard grunt would look this shaggy anything less than two years out. It’s a very small detail, but he’s trained to look for such tiny inconsistencies and maybe Captain America is too.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” he answers finally, and although his tone is stiff, Captain America’s face softens immediately into an expression so seemingly kind and understanding Bucky just knows that he practices making it in a mirror. 

“Yeah, I get it.” 

The Captain takes a breath. “So, anyway.”

Bucky steels himself, holding his breath and willing the heart monitor to stop accelerating.

“This might not be my place,” the Captain begins, “So—feel free to stop me if this is a little too invasive. Stark Industries is going to be piloting an advanced prosthetics program, and I wondered if you might be interested in participating. You’d be our first volunteer, and—well, it would be completely free.”

Bucky’s mind reels. ‘Advanced Prosthetics Program?’ 

“I—what?” he blurts.

The Captain looks slightly encouraged. “It’s up to you, of course, and it would only be a prototype, but Tony—uh, Iron Man—can do some pretty amazing things with robotics. And you’ve already met Dr. Cho, who’d be handling the neuro-interfacing. You’d probably have to come here a few times a week at first, but after it’s all done, it’ll just be yours. Free maintenance for the rest of your life, too. I don’t want to make any overblown promises, but I’d be surprised if you wouldn’t end up with an almost fully functional arm. Just—you know. Metal.” 

He scratches his head. “They told me all the terms, but I’m not really good at that stuff. ‘Cyber-something’, they said.”

He grins suddenly at Bucky, and his smile is so bright and disarming that for a second, Bucky forgets where he is and just stares at Captain America’s handsome face. 

He imagines the freedom—the _security_ —of having two arms again. It’s not so much the daily annoyances, for him, as it is the constant feeling of vulnerability—a point hammered directly into his side not five or so hours prior. Automatically, he moves his hand to touch the bandage and hisses when he accidentally presses down too hard.

The pain shakes him right out of his stupor. He’s relieved that they apparently haven’t done their due diligence on him, or at least haven’t put two-and-two together yet, but they’ll definitely be a lot more thorough if he even shows the slightest interest in participating.

“Listen, uh, Captain—”

“Steve, please,” comes the hasty interruption. 

“…Steve, I appreciate this, I really do. But I can’t—I really don’t want any publicity, or anything.”

The Captain’s face falls, and then abruptly closes off. “Do you think that’s why I’m doing this?”

Of-fucking-course, but Bucky’s supposed to be acting grateful and he’s doing an absolutely shit job at it. He’s been in clandestine ops for over a decade and he’s done his fair share of espionage. Personal trauma or not, he’s behaving like an amateur.

“No! Of course not.” He tries to look earnest. “I just meant that it probably comes with the territory, right? And I’m—not so good with that stuff. Especially these days.”

He does his best to radiate vulnerability, hoping the Captain pegs him as traumatized.

It earns him a faint half-smile. 

“You’re not wrong.”

Despite everything, Bucky feels an unwelcome twinge of guilt—though he’s clearly trying to hide it, the Captain looks completely crestfallen. He’d clearly expected Bucky to be excited about the idea.

Bucky reminds himself that the Captain’s PR team had undoubtedly put this all into his head once they’d realized that his latest damsel-in-distress was missing an arm.

The Captain takes a deep breath. “Well—that’s fair. Tell you what—I’ll see what I can do to get around that, and you take my card in case you change your mind.”

He digs around in his pocket again, and comes up with a plain white business card. Bucky sees a handwritten number scribbled onto the back.

The Captain holds it out to him, looking determined. “That’s my real cell phone number. I promise—I’ll see if there’s any way to get you into the program without you having to put your face on anything. It’s the least I can do.”

Bucky doesn’t point out that he hasn’t actually done anything to warrant this, but he takes the card anyway. "Okay."

The Captain nods, looking away. “Right,” he says, almost to himself. “Look—your clothes are over here.” 

He retrieves Bucky’s shirt from somewhere just out of sight, and carefully places Bucky’s shoes next to the bed.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just—stay here. Please.”

The Captain marches out of the room, and Bucky lies back, exhausted, clutching his shirt in his hand. At this point, he’s completely given up on predicting the Captain’s behavior. 

The Captain is back within fifteen minutes, clutching a laminated white card on a lanyard in his hand. 

“Here, can you sit up?”

Bucky tries to jerk into a sitting position, and then reels a bit as a wave of dizziness washes over him.

Instantly, there’s an impossibly strong hand on his back, steeling him. 

The Captain moves in behind him until he's almost pressing against Bucky's back as Bucky sways a bit, trying to get his bearings. Absently, Bucky notes that the Captain’s chest feels ridiculously warm.

“I’m okay,” he says finally, and then swings his feet over the side of the bed. He tilts his head back and forth, hearing it crack, and then yanks the shirt over his head. 

The Captain eases back, watching Bucky cautiously as he shoves his feet into his shoes and tentatively stands, moving around the room experimentally. 

"Are you sure you're good?"

"Yeah. Just initial dizziness, you know."

The Captain looks unconvinced, but when it’s clear that Bucky isn’t going to faint away, he holds up the laminated card. “Press Pass,” he explains. “I’ll walk with you until you’re able to find your own way out, but this’ll get you out the door without anyone asking questions. You’re probably supposed to sign an NDA, because, you know—” he waves a hand around the room, indicating the futuristic technology. “And honestly, they’ll probably want you to make some kind of statement. But I guess, just—if I get you out of here with no cameras and no media, can you just take this as a gesture of good faith?”

He looks at Bucky, his face almost pathetically hopeful. The pass wavers in his hand.

“Thanks,” Bucky says slowly, and he takes the pass. He feels a flash of uncertainty. “Really,” he adds. “I appreciate this.”

The Captain ducks his head, but not before Bucky can see the pleased expression on his face. He says, “Look—even if you don’t want to participate in the program, I’ll get it, but—if you ever want to just—talk to someone.”

The tips of his ears turn red as he adds, “I’d appreciate it, too.”

Bucky looks at the Captain's golden head and for just a slight second, he wonders if—

_—Murphy, screaming wetly, his legs separated from his torso by a flash of red light—_

Ice floods Bucky's veins.

When the Captain raises his head, Bucky looks him straight in the eyes and smiles. “I don’t know what to say,” he says softly, pouring every ounce of heartfelt sincerity that he can into the words. He imagines slashing open a bright red grin on that perfect throat. “Thank you, Steve.”

True to his word, the Captain walks Bucky to what he suspects is a private elevator, and rides with him in silence to the first floor. 

“Drop the Press Pass on your way out,” the Captain tells him. “Exit’s straight ahead. There’s a big bin with a sign, you can’t possibly miss it.”

Bucky can see daylight.

"You're sure you're okay to walk on your own?"

"I'm good," Bucky tells him. 

He's so _close._

“If you're sure. And James—” the Captain gives him another one of those beautiful, earnest smiles. “I really hope that I see you again.”

Bucky feels nothing but icy calm as he follows the Captain’s instructions. He sees security guards bristling with weapons perched on the mezzanine above, but nobody gives him even a passing glance as he drops his Pass in the bin and pushes his way out of Avengers Tower.

The detached calmness stays with him as he takes measured steps down the street. He stares straight ahead on the subway, and thinks of nothing.

It isn’t until he pushes open his apartment door and he hears a hoarse bark that his hand starts to tremble. He sees Charlie limping frantically over to him and he falls to his knees, and when Charlie pushes his soft head clumsily against his chest Bucky finally starts to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be diving right along into the main plot next chapter. I think. Come talk to me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: let’s just assume from here on out that there are a lot dark themes and not-nice people in this fic - much like anything you might see on The Boys. Racism, sexism, homophobia, violence, minimization of sexual violence, and corporate jargon, none of which I endorse. Ye be warned.

Steve’s fridge is always fully stocked with fresh, healthy, organic foods—he only has to voice his grocery list out loud to FRIDAY, and within twenty-four hours he’ll have a delivery ready for pick-up downstairs. 

Back in the thirties, he would have been bowled over by the sheer culinary excess at his disposal. Back then, chipped beef was considered a luxury, and now he’s got more than twelve rib-eye steaks neatly stacked in his freezer for a rainy day. Even so, he now reaches past them to grab a pint of ice cream, too tired to even heat up last night’s leftovers even though it’s only lunchtime.

Ben & Jerry’s had given them all complimentary pints when they’d done the big roll-out of their limited-edition Avengers-themed flavors. Steve’s own flavor is probably the least popular (Star-Spangled Strawberry Swirl—they’d been going for the obvious red-white-blue motif, but after a few bites it always just starts to look purple). Ironically, he himself favors Stark Raving Hazelnuts. 

Today, even ice cream doesn’t look too appetizing—he pokes at it half-heartedly, scratching at the ice crystals that have formed over its surface. 

“Captain America,” FRIDAY says suddenly, startling him. “Mr. Stark is requesting your presence in the boardroom.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” Steve answers absently. 

Although he supposes that JARVIS is still technically around, since he’s sort of Vision now—Steve still isn’t exactly sure how that works—he misses Tony’s original AI every time he hears FRIDAY’s harsh brogue. She always sounds vaguely annoyed to him, somehow. Like Vision, JARVIS had been unfailingly gracious and soft-spoken. More importantly, he’d addressed Steve as “Captain Rogers,” which FRIDAY outright refuses to do.

Steve’s sure it’s got something to do with the fact that they’re all supposed to embody their Avengers personas whenever possible, these days—never know when errant press might be lurking in the hallways, or something—but it stings just the smallest bit every time he hears it; a thousand psychic paper-cuts slowly carving away at his sanity.

Yesterday, James had called him _Steve_ with barely a blink of an eye. Twice, even. It’s not really a big deal—and Steve is well aware that he’s almost certainly projecting waning hopes onto James, based solely on that one first fleeting encounter—but people almost always default to “Captain America”, even when he asks them not to. Steve thinks it’s a toss-up between a genuine show of respect, which he tries his best to earn, and the small thrill they must get when they affirm to themselves that yes, they’re talking to _Captain America_ , the First Avenger in the flesh. Even Stark employees he’s worked with for years can usually only be talked down to calling him “Captain Rogers” or “Captain”—except for Christina of course, who tends to address him by barking _‘Rogers’_ with all the deference of a drill sergeant. 

Steve pushes himself off of the couch, wondering what he’s being called down to the carpet for. If a situation had come up, they’d likely all just be in the nearest conference room, and if some visiting dignitary had made an impromptu appearance, he’d be expected to come in costume. 

No, there’s a point that’s going to be made, here. 

It’s probably too much to hope for that for once, Christina’s just happy that he’s finally shown some initiative with his branding. He’d reached out to her about the prosthetics program a week or so ago after his talk with Natasha, and she’d promptly sent over a stack of literature and talking-points for him to get him started. He can probably hand over the business of finding volunteers to her, now, although he’s still fervently hoping that James will change his mind and give him a call. Steve had been pretty hurt at James’ initial flat refusal, but he can’t exactly blame a guy for not wanting to be in the glare of the media. 

James turning him down had been a little embarrassing, too, seeing as how James had sort of given him the idea to support the advanced prosthetics program in the first place. When Nat had rattled off a list of charitable causes that he should attach his name to, he’d sort of absently hit on _advanced prosthetics_ mostly because the encounter with James had still been on his mind at the time—he’d been feeling guilty about running James out of the park, and of course he hadn’t missed the empty sleeve when they’d met. In a roundabout way, it had felt like atoning for his pomposity. 

Steve flicks his eyes up to activate the retinal scanner on the elevator, feeling both nervous and resigned. Avengers Tower is both impressive and eclectic—part sleek modern corporation, part impossibly luxurious living space, and part showcase for its most valuable inhabitants. Aside from Pepper's office, the top floor is dedicated solely to the Avengers. 

The marble-floored, brightly-lit hallway leading to the Boardroom is lined with giant, individual glamor shots of all active Avengers. Every one is a close-up of each Avenger looking inspirationally off into the distance except for Tony. Tony’s picture shows him in his suit, too, but his helmet is up and he’s facing the viewer head-on.

Privately, Steve sometimes thinks that it must be a nod to the fact that Tony isn’t just an Avenger—he’s also their boss, the one who signs all of their checks. Well, Pepper is, technically, but it’s Tony’s name on the logo. 

Steve is a bit ashamed that he doesn’t know the specifics of Stark Industries. It’s the company he works for, after all, and he has only a vague idea of how it runs. Google has given him only a cursory overview: publicly traded company operating in so many business sectors that Steve had been almost impressed. Obviously, he’d known about things like advanced technologies, intelligent energy distribution, and defense contracting, but the extent of Stark’s healthcare systems investment, not to mention SI’s work with aerospace engineering and compact nuclear fusion, had been complete news to him. 

He’d stopped reading once he’d learned that Stark Industries was the recipient of nearly thirty percent of all funds paid out by the Pentagon over the last three years. He’s not really sure why, but it had kindled a familiar feeling of unease that he hadn’t wanted to revisit at the time.

Steve steels himself, and pushes open the heavy metal door. 

He’s not sure of who exactly designed the Boardroom, but it’s equal parts stately and state-of-the-art. It’s where they take all the VIPs—investors, politicians, skeptical-but-powerful media bigwigs—and it never fails to impress. One wall is purely glass, looking out over a spectacular view of the city. Another wall is full of various glowing monitors filled with busy blue holograms that Steve’s not sure contain actual information—likely, it’s just for show. 

The metal relief that graces most of the wall behind Steve was modeled directly after the iconic shot of the Avengers at the Battle of New York. Sure, the six Avengers on it aren’t the Seven currently active, but it’s such a familiar image that most people don’t even notice. 

In the center of the room is a sleek glass table in the shape of the Avengers ‘A’ logo. Seated there, wearing various expressions of disapproval, are Tony, Christina, Maria, and Carter. 

Carter Jensen is Stark Industries’ General Counsel, blond and blandly handsome. Although unfailingly friendly, his smiles never seem to reach his hazel eyes. Steve gets the feeling that Carter considers them all to be unbearably stupid, which is probably half the reason that he and Christina seem to get along so well. 

“Hey, guys,” Steve says, trying to keep his tone even and his face clear.

Christina is sitting directly to Tony’s left, and her gaze periodically darts over to him. Steve’s not sure whether she’s there to scold Steve or to rein in Tony. 

Probably a bit of both.

“Cap,” Tony says, his voice dangerously casual. “Heard you did a bit of superhero-ing in the park, yesterday.”

Almost automatically, Steve feels his temper rising. By now, he’s well used to Tony’s incessant jabs at him, but the way Tony effortlessly manages to reduce sincerity to farce never fails to arouse his ire. “A guy got stabbed right in front of me, so I saved his life. That not allowed now?”

Tony shrugs exaggeratedly. “Of course it is. We’re the Avengers, after all. But I want to point out that for all the pouting you’ve been doing around here lately, you had no trouble using Stark equipment— _extremely expensive_ Stark equipment, in fact—to make an unauthorized medical intervention. It really caught my attention. And I realized that we were overdue a little, uh, check-in.” He spreads his arms wide. “A quick refresher, maybe, about what we do here.”

Steve stares at him. “I thought that saving people _is_ what we do here.”

“Saving people, _yes_. Bringing them into _Avengers Tower_ on the SI Medevac, _no_. Rogers, what if he’d died on the way here, or _in_ here, for that matter? You want a wrongful death suit or a public inquiry on our hands?” 

“Captain, there’s a reason that we’re only strictly authorized to call city or state medical personnel,” Carter interjects smoothly. “You’re not a medical professional, and you don’t carry any liability insurance. Neither does SI, as it happens—at least not for this kind of situation. I don’t expect you to be an expert on tort law, but if an argument could be made that you made his situation worse in any way by moving him yourself, he could have sued us into next week. More importantly—technically, if not strictly pre-authorized to act, you’re in violation of the Accords.”

Steve feels stunned. “So, what—I’m not allowed to _help_ people now?”

“Oh, no, you _can_ ,” Carter assures him. “Absolutely, you can. Nobody’s actually going to come down on you for a technicality. Outside of American jurisdiction, maybe, but we can always get retroactive approval.”

“But absolutely _no_ unauthorized vigilante activity,” Christina says, severe as a schoolmarm. “Don’t think we’re not aware of your little three a.m. strolls through the park.”

Steve looks between them, feeling incredulous. “But what about Peter? We’ve got Spiderman on the news every night doing this exact thing.”

“ _Peter_ is strictly on the petty crime beat, if you haven’t noticed,” Christina snaps. “And even if some old lady got knocked down in a mugging or something, he would _call an ambulance_. _Think_ , Rogers. If the public knows that we’ve got a state of the art medevac capable of providing advanced medical care and transporting people to a medical facility in a _fraction_ of the time an ambulance would take, they’ll wonder why we don’t use it every time. And what do you think the public will think if they find out we’ve got a device that can _regrow tissue_ and we haven’t mass-produced it yet?” 

“So, what, you’d rather I just leave him there to _die_?”

Tony throws up his hands, letting them slap loudly back down on the table. “Cap, is there _any_ situation that you can’t turn into an opportunity for martyrdom? That’s not what anyone said.”

“Helen said he would have died if I hadn’t brought him in.”

“Do we _really_ know that? For a medical certainty?” Tony asks, looking skeptical. “The Regeneration Cradle is Helen’s baby, she’d probably say the exact same thing if he came in with a broken toe.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Steve says finally. He’s not remotely convinced, and he’d do the exact same thing all over again, but it’s clear that he’s not going to win this battle. “I get it, no good deed goes unpunished. I won’t do it again.” 

Unfortunately, Tony isn’t convinced, either. He narrows his eyes as Steve. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re just trying to get this over with, Rogers. I really need some assurance that you’re on board, here.”

“Or what,” Steve says, slipping the reins on his temper. “What are you actually going to do? Fire me?”

“’Do’?” Tony asks, looking innocently surprised. “I’m not going to _do_ anything, Cap. But I think what _you_ fail to realize is that if you stop putting in the work, so do we. And if the public loses interest in you and we have to decide it’s best to phase you out, you go back to being a private citizen.”

His dark eyes bore into Steve’s as he adds, “And don’t forget, even if that happens, you’re still a signatory. No extracurricular heroics this time.”

Steve clenches his jaw.

“If I could just chime in here,” Christina says, laying a warning hand on Tony’s arm, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. This isn’t a disciplinary hearing—”

“—uh, isn’t that _exactly_ what this is?”—

“—it’s just to help you get back on track.” 

Steve sees Christina gently place her knife-like stiletto directly onto the toe of Tony’s undoubtedly genuine-leather loafers. Tony sits back, tightening his mouth and looking away, and Christina eases her foot back up.

“Steve,” Christina says patiently, “This is _exactly_ why we want you to be meeting with your PR team on a regular basis. We need you to be able to recognize and take control of these situations—this was a _perfect_ opportunity to boost your image, and by not taking advantage of it you not only threw that away, you might have created some legal complications. We could definitely used this to showcase your relatability—you know we’ve always had problems with people being able to relate to you on a _personal_ level; our feedback still says you’re coming off as unrealistic.”

Tony snorts audibly.

“Not to mention the fact that if we’d gotten permission from the victim, we could have worked in a write-up on Helen Cho. You _know_ SI has been getting criticism for our lack of diversity in recent coverage, and we could have used this to boost our popularity with our female and Asian demographics.”

Steve feels distinctly uncomfortable. “Can’t you do a story on her anyway?”

“Of course we can,” she says, her nostrils flaring. “If we want to bore people to death. _Human interest_ , Rogers,” she orders, rapping her pen on the table. “There are thousands of brilliant scientists working on micro-cellular biology and nano-technology but how many of them can we work into a story about Captain America?” 

“Fine,” Steve says dully. “So I’m in trouble with legal, and I’m in trouble with marketing. Why are _you_ here?” he asks, turning to look at Maria. She’s been watching them with mild interest the whole time, looking elegantly aloof. Steve knows that his tone is bordering on rude, but he can’t seem to help himself.

She raises a brow but sounds calm as ever as she replies, “I’m here, Steve, because I’m Stark Industries’ head of security, and you just left an unidentified man alone in a room filled with billions of dollars worth of specialized medical equipment.”

Steve looks skyward. “Well, he was unconscious for most of it, and he clearly didn’t take anything with him!”

Carter leans forward. “Have you ever heard the term _residuals_ , Captain? We’ve already spoken to Dr. Cho. Apparently, she explained the basics of the regeneration cradle to him, for some reason. You realize that we can’t take legal action against independently developed products if developed by information retained in a party’s unaided memory? We could stand to lose billions in intellectual property development.”

“Well, unless he happens to be a biochemical engineer, I think we’ll be okay,” Steve says sarcastically.

“Yeah, that’s the other, _way_ more important thing,” Tony says, pointedly leaning over Carter. 

Carter sits back, his patient smile tightening.

“We don’t know who the hell this guy is.”

“Does that _matter_?”

“Yeah, Cap, it actually does,” Tony says, the telling clench of his jaw signaling real irritation. “Do you think the armed guards are just for the aesthetic? Did you think that we keep an insanely detailed record of everyone who walks through those doors just for the fun of it? We need to know exactly who we’re dealing with, at all times. This place is a giant target, Rogers, remember? ‘A warm light for all mankind to share.’ It’s a symbol of everything we stand for and everything that _they_ —” he points a finger out the window at some amorphous threat—“would love to see fall. Do you know how many people would love to try and take us out?”

Privately, Steve thinks that in fact, there really haven’t been any Avengers-level threats in years, cosmic or otherwise, but he knows better than to say so.

He sighs. “I don’t think getting stabbed was part of his nefarious plot, Tony, but I’ll bite. Didn’t FRIDAY run a scan when he came in?”

“See, now, normally, we _would_ run a facial recognition scan, but, you know, it’s just the darndest thing? See, he didn’t exactly come in through the front door, and when the med-team brought him in he was wearing an oxygen mask. When he _left_ , though, he _somehow_ managed to keep you in between himself and the cameras at all times. Just the right angle so we couldn’t get a good enough shot of his face. Even in the _private elevator we don’t let anyone else use_. What a crazy coincidence, huh, Cap?”

Steve can feel himself flushing to the top of his hairline, but he holds Tony’s gaze, feeling defiant. After the incident with the bugs, he’d made it a point to try to figure out exactly where all of the Tower’s cameras are located, at least on the floors he frequents. Just for the principle of the thing. As it turned out, it’s a fairly standard pattern on almost every floor. He’ll never be able to hide, exactly, but it’s almost habitual for him to turn his face away from where he knows the cameras will catch him, just out of principle.

If he’d happened to have steered James around in a calculated sort of way, well—it’s not as though he’d believed it would actually work.

“What about in the medical ward?”

“HIPPA violation,” Carter says immediately. From the look of loathing that Tony shoots him, Steve is sure that this had been a massive point of contention between the two of them. 

“Even though _we_ are the only ones who are supposed to be using it,” Tony mutters, ostensibly to Maria.

“And if _any_ Stark Industries employee were to be injured in any of the _patently dangerous_ experiments that—”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Christina interrupts, baring her teeth in a clenched smile. “Let’s stay focused here, please. Rogers, do you know how to find this guy? At least we can ask him to sign an NDA, and maybe a short statement that covers us.”

“The residual language won’t apply retroactively,” Carter murmurs, but he’s roundly ignored.

Steve shakes his head, feeling mulish. “No. But even if I did, I wouldn’t help you track him down.”

Even Maria lets out an exasperated sigh, and Christina looks heavenward. 

“Rogers—”

“But,” Steve interrupts, “He does have my cell phone number. There’s a chance he might contact us.” _Me_ , he doesn’t say.

There’s a short silence.

“And why, exactly, does he have that?” 

“I extended an offer to have him participate in the pilot program for the advanced prosthetics program. He said he’d think about it and get back to me.”

Christina nearly collapses with relief, but Tony leans forward, the interested look on his face making Steve suddenly wary.

“Wait,” Tony says suddenly, “Is _this guy_ the reason you suddenly wanted to headline the prosthetics pilot?” 

Steve sees the faintest hint of a smirk around his mouth. 

“You got a little crush, Cap?”

“No,” Christina says sharply. “Absolutely not. That won’t work for your demographic, Steve.”

“Believe it or not, Tony,” Steve replies evenly, ignoring Christina, “Some of us capable of doing the right thing even if we’re not getting anything out of it.”

Steve feels a guilty satisfaction when he sees that he’s finally scored a direct hit. For once, all of the humor leaves Tony’s face and he meets Steve’s gaze grimly. For just a second, Steve thinks Tony’s going to bring up the Battle of New York and his ensuing PTSD again—Tony seems to think it’s some sort of trump card—but Tony just sits back and looks away.

Clearly relieved, Christina continues in on Steve. “Rogers, how sure are you that this guy’s going to call?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m not, really—he seemed a little spooked by the whole thing, to tell you the truth.”

Christina sighs. “Well, that won’t work. Maria, nothing outside?”

Steve knows that SI has surveillance cameras set up for blocks around the Tower—he suspects they might extend well past that.

“Unfortunately no. He headed right for the subway—we weren’t able to get a clear shot.”

“Okay, but—” Steve breaks in, a little desperately. The last thing he wants is Stark Industries trying to hunt down poor James after all Steve’s put him through. “Can’t we just _tell them_ he wanted to keep this private? You know, like—we’re respecting his privacy? Right?”

To his utter relief, Christina narrows her eyes thoughtfully. She taps her pen against her legal pad. “Mm. ‘To avoid further re-traumatization of the victim, we are respecting the privacy of…’” She turns to Tony. “You know, if we frame it like he _could_ be a woman—just get the press to assume, push that angle—this could work in our favor.”

Tony shrugs, looking irritable. “Do I look like one of your little minions? That means nothing to me.”

Unfazed, Christina turns to Carter. “Gender-neutral pronouns, and have Pepper put out the statement for SI, not Tony. We’ll have Cho say she can’t comment. A lot of charged buzzwords—make it as close to a rape analogy as we can get it without being obvious. Something like—‘to ensure that the victim is not subjected to further abuse or hostile questioning during this period of vulnerability and to avoid re-traumatization, we will be respecting the victim’s wishes to remain anonymous. Stark Industries is dedicated to the preserving the emotional well-being of—’ do we still have that partnership with RAINN? No, that’s too derivative, but we’ll find an appropriate hotline to link to.”

Carter’s nodding along with her, apparently not bothered by being obliquely referred to as a ‘minion’. “Cho will have to say she can’t comment as head of Stark Industries’ Medical R & D, though. Even hinting at being someone’s treating physician is probably violative.”

“But the rest of it works?”

“Oh, sure. As long as—” 

He looks at Steve. “Captain, what _exactly_ did this guy say to you? If we’re going to quote him, we’d better be accurate, because if he changes his mind and comes forward, we’ll look ridiculous. Also, you know, we could be liable.”

“He said—” Steve racks his brains, but all he can come up with was the set, almost harsh look on James’s face. “Look, can’t we just say the victim didn’t want to comment and leave it at that?”

What will James think, when he sees that Steve’s used his undoubtedly traumatic ordeal to boost ratings?

Or that Steve’s chosen to imply that James was a _literal_ damsel in distress?

“ _No_ ,” Christina says crisply, but she’s grinning. “This is good, Rogers. Way to salvage the situation. You two—” she points between Steve and Carter, “Get together and figure out the legalese, and then I’ll get the statements prepared. Carter, get me something by three p.m. today.”

She’s up and moving, gathering her ever-present legal pad and quickly smoothing a hand over her hair. 

“I’ve got a good feeling about this!” she calls over her shoulder as she marches out.

There’s a short silence, and then Carter smiles politely and says, “Captain, let’s meet to go over the details in an hour or so. One sound okay?”

Steve nods his assent and Carter follows Christina out, leaving awkward silence in his wake.

Steve looks away from Tony and Maria to gaze at the metal relief, just for something to do. His eyes linger on the Hulk—the biggest figure, his face twisted in rage—and Hawkeye, depicted in the midst of drawing his bow. Steve hasn’t seen Clint since his abrupt retirement three years ago. Steve’s still not sure of the details, but he thinks there must have been a horrible, friendship-ending fight between Clint and Natasha, because no-one’s heard from him since. Nat still refuses to talk about any of it, although Steve knows she must be hurting.

Lately, Steve’s found himself missing Clint. He thinks about that idyllic little farm and somehow gets the feeling that Clint wouldn’t have bought into this corporate nonsense, either.

“So, Cap,” Tony’s voice drags Steve’s eyes back to the table. “Was any of that unclear?”

Maria looks between them mildly.

Steve draws a deep breath, and looks at them. “I hear you,” he says, as evenly as he can. 

Tony looks a little uncomfortable for the first time all day. “Look, Steve—” he starts, but Steve’s not in the mood for it, not now. 

“Later,” he tells Tony, and he even sort of means it. As much as he can’t stand Tony, these days, he’ll never refuse a genuine olive branch, if only for his own peace of mind. 

Just—maybe some other time, when he hasn’t just been thoroughly beaten down by his corporate handlers.

He nods to Maria and practically flees the room, heading for the safety of the elevators. He rounds the corner and runs straight into Pepper, almost knocking her right off her feet and making her drop the sheaf of papers in her hands. She must not have known about the meeting; she and Tony are rarely in the same corner of the Tower, these days.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Steve says, crouching down to gather up the papers. “Really, I’m—all over the place today.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely fine, Steve,” Pepper says, composed as always. She runs a hand down her impeccable white suit, smoothing non-existent creases. “In fact, you’re just the person I was looking for, so this is perfect.”

She smiles at him.

Steve almost closes his eyes in despair. He can’t—he _can’t_ —have this conversation again or he’ll break down entirely.

“What can I do for you?” he asks her, as cheerfully as he can. He can feel his weak smile falter.

She looks at him for a moment, and then says, “Well, Christina came to talk to me, yesterday. And Carter. And Tony, even. And I—”

Steve wants to sink to the floor. “I’m sorry, Pepper,” he interrupts. “Really. It was an oversight, and I can promise you I’ve been—reprimanded. I’ll work with the PR team, I’ll do whatever you want, just—” 

“Steve,” she interrupts gently. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

It’s what Sam had ostensibly wanted, and Natasha, but somehow, he actually believes her when Pepper says it. 

Pepper is still the CEO of Stark Industries, but whereas Tony had previously been happy to let her run the company while he puttered around in his workshop, the balance of power has obviously shifted back in Tony’s favor sometime in the past three years. Steve doesn’t know much about publicly traded companies, but he does know that Chairman of the Board is the technically senior position.

From what he’s caught here and there in the news, Tony had also triggered a mildly controversial clawback in order to become the majority shareholder. It’s pretty clear to everyone that although Pepper manages the day-to-day grind of running the company, it’s Tony who’s calling the shots again.

Steve wonders if that had had anything to do with their latest break-up.

He sighs, and tries to smile. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are,” she says, but her concerned expression leaves little doubt that she sees right through him. 

He looks away.

“You know, Steve,” she says delicately, shuffling a few papers, “I may be more of a—COO these days, if we’re being honest with ourselves, but until someone says otherwise, you’re still my employee. And I happen to think that my employees deserve some R and R, every once in awhile. If you ever find that you need a quick break—” she smiles at him, faintly “—there are some very discreet, very nice beachfront properties that I would be happy to let you use.”

He does smile then, and for once it doesn’t feel forced. “Thank you, Pepper,” he says, trying to put everything he can’t say into the words.

“Of course, Steve. Anytime.” She pats his arm, once, and then sifts her papers back together with a brisk tap, clicking past him down the hallway.

“Oh, and Steve,” she says, turning back suddenly. “I almost forgot. I did read that email you’d sent to me. I’ll have to talk to Christina, of course, but I’m sure there’s some way we can work this out so that your friend can remain anonymous—it’s medical, after all. We’re all _very_ glad to see you taking an interest in your brand.”

It’s a small win—not much of one, really. But he’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I do promise it will lighten up soon! A bit. Poor Steve. 
> 
> I'm basing SI kind of off of Lockheed Martin, (which I think it was supposed to represent, anyway?) so I got some of the internal structure from that Wiki page. No offense to Lockheed Martin intended.
> 
> Come talk to me in the comments! :D


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a bit pathetic that Bucky’s reason for living is a dog he’s only had for a little over two months, now, but at least it’s something. 

Bucky’s been vacillating between paranoia and what he’s pretty sure is depression ever since he left Avengers Tower. At first, he was determined to simply shut himself up for as long as possible, but while _he’s_ perfectly content to paper over his windows and turn the apartment into a makeshift safe house—safe room?— he can’t keep Charlie locked up here forever.

Uber Eats can keep Bucky alive for as long as they’re in business, but Charlie has to be walked, and his ridiculously expensive dog food won't buy itself. For a split second Bucky had considered hiring a dog walker, at least temporarily, but the second he’d clicked over to Craigslist a bolt of shame had cut right through his selfishness. True, Charlie deserves far better than Bucky’s bullshit, but they're stuck with each other now—no matter what, the least Bucky can do is to try and do right by him.

Bucky wears a ridiculous number of layers, aviators and a ball cap to do it, but he faithfully walks Charlie every day. He keeps his concealed carry on him at all times, and twitches at loud noises. After the second outing, Bucky starts to feel almost defiant. _None_ of this is his fault. Charlie shouldn’t have to suffer just because the Avengers keep sticking their noses in his business.

Resolute, Bucky doubles down on pet ownership. He determines that Charlie needs stimulation, and that watching Bucky drink his way through some truly awful IPAs probably isn’t going to do it, so now they’ve added an hour of playtime to their days. Bucky sort of feels like an asshole playing fetch, although Charlie seems to love it. Bucky had thrown the ball once without thinking, and then his insides had practically curdled away with guilt for the entire time it had taken for Charlie to limp as fast as he could after the tennis ball and retrieve it for him.

They’re learning to adapt, though. Charlie is a big fan of tug of war, and Bucky’s also found that Charlie is surprisingly good at snatching a ball out of the air, if Bucky throws it straight up in such a way that Charlie only has to use his hind legs to jump for it.

In the meantime, he’s made an appointment with a new veterinarian across town, after spending a few agonizing hours comparing Yelp reviews. He hadn’t completely liked the vet he’d initially taken Charlie to, so he decides that he needs a second opinion. That vet had seemed overly confident that Charlie’s in no real pain, but Charlie’s clearly given to quiet stoicism and Bucky’s become almost manic in his quest to make sure that Charlie is as happy and comfortable as modern medicine and PetSmart can make him. 

Bucky is well aware that Jeff would probably say something about _projection_ or _transference_ , but he hasn’t been to see Jeff since just after the Captain American incident. It’s a combination of severe paranoia and automatic instinct—if he’s not a secret Stark plant, or something, Jeff doesn’t deserve to be involved in any of this. Besides Charlie, Jeff’s the only real non-operator around that might be at risk for becoming Bucky's collateral damage.

When even Charlie can’t distract him from his encroaching thoughts, Bucky drinks. It’s eight o’clock on an unbearably hot evening when he realizes that he’s actually run out of beer. Considering the stockpile he’d had on hand, he knows that he should probably be concerned about this development, but he resolves to deal with it tomorrow.

There’s a bar a few blocks away from him that he’d visited once or twice when he’d first got back. Helpfully, it's called _The Dive Bar_ , and it mostly provides what’s advertised, even if it is a little too clean and smug about the whole meta concept. From what Bucky remembers, it’s mostly just locals watching sports, which is perfect for his needs.

The bar is a little younger and louder than he remembers, when he gets there, and Bucky thinks that it must’ve gotten written up as a “hidden gem” somewhere. Still, he manages to find an actual seat at the bar and get his beer. 

He’s almost through with beer number three when he feels a heavy presence sit down beside him. Automatically, he glances sideways, but it’s no one he recognizes—some guy with a square, grizzled face, dark hair, and snapping brown eyes.

The man grins at him, and Bucky looks pointedly away. The man's not bad looking, in a rugged kind of way, but he’s not Bucky’s type, and anyway, the last thing Bucky needs to round out his astonishingly shit month is a bad one night stand.

“His next one’s on me,” the man declares to the bartender anyway, thumping Bucky’s shoulder like they’re old pals. His voice seems surprisingly light for his grizzled visage.

Bucky half-turns, hoping the glower on his face will deter any further advances. “Thanks,” he says flatly, trying for a _go-away_ vibe.

The man just beams winningly at him, though.

Of course.

Bucky tries to edge away unobtrusively, but of course when the bartender stops by again, he can’t just ignore the man who’s actually buying the beer.

He takes the glass and gives the man a quick nod of thanks.

The man scoots closer.

“You serve?” he asks Bucky, and Bucky nods. Ordinarily, the question would put Bucky on edge, but he’s three beers in and the man can’t have missed his prosthetic. More importantly, Bucky’s noticed that the man is wearing what looks like fairly old, standard-issue boots.

“Three tours,” Bucky says, giving his automatic cover response.

The man whistles. “Army?”

“Rangers.”

“Hooah!”

Bucky smiles thinly, his mood souring by the minute. He hadn’t spent much time in the Rangers before jumping to Delta, but even he knows that Rangers don’t really say that anymore, especially after _Black Hawk Down_. He mentally revises his initial assessment. Possibly the man’s just another military groupie—a weekend warrior who likes to go shoot at his fancy gun-range and pretend he’s a badass.

“So where’d you serve?”

Bucky feels his temper starting to creep up through the warm haze of drink. “None of your business,” he says shortly.

“Ah, c’mon,” the man wheedles, grinning unrepentantly. “Look, man, I served, too. Sorry about the _hooah_ thing, I was just trying to rile you up. My name’s Phil.”

Bucky looks at him. ‘Phil’ looks sincere enough, even if amusement still dances in his eyes. 

Bucky doesn’t get it. The bartender slides him his beer and he takes a sip, thinking it over. The guy seems harmless enough, if a little pushy. Bucky hadn't exactly been sending out come-hither vibes, and he knows that he's not at his best these days, aesthetically-speaking, but maybe this guy is into dark circles under the eyes, or something. 

Back before his life had collapsed around him, Bucky had endured a lot of good-natured teasing about his "pretty-boy" face from his team. He'd kept his bisexuality under wraps in Basic, but he'd cautiously opened up to his team when he'd made Delta, figuring that anyone who'd made it into their ranks would have to have a decent head on their shoulders. To get into Delta, soldiers endure not only grueling physical challenges but a battery of psychological tests, and Bucky had figured that they would have at least weeded out the biggest assholes.

He'd heard a lot of stories about guys coming out in the military to varying levels of acceptance or heat, but his instincts had been more or less right on the money. There were some insensitive jokes, occasionally, but what he'd mostly had to endure was Teddy Schultz trying to make "Honeypot" stick as a nickname for Bucky. He seemed to harbor the odd idea that Bucky's bisexuality somehow made him twice as valuable for purposes of espionage, ignoring the fact that none of them had ever actually heard of a honeypot sting outside of Tom Clancy.

__Thankfully, Teddy had eventually stopped his campaign, and Bucky's bisexuality became just another facet of his personality; far less remarkable, really, than Mack's crazy double-jointed thumbs. Bucky had had the sense that Murphy had finally pulled Teddy aside and chewed him out about the whole thing, mostly because Teddy had abruptly come to him one morning with a stumbling apology about perpetuating stereotypes._ _

____

__“Bucky,” he says finally. “You a Marine, or something?” Maybe Phil's a jarhead trying for some friendly rivalry banter._ _

____

____

Phil laughs. “Nah. Went straight from Army to SHIELD. You know, until—”

He mimes an explosion with both hands. 

Bucky looks at him with a little more interest. “SHIELD, huh?”

“Yeah,” Phil says. “Just a task force grunt, though, so I don’t have any good stories about what happened in DC. I was in New Mexico when they found Thor, though!”

“Huh,” Bucky grunts. The last thing he wants to do tonight is talk about the Avengers. 

The man seems totally undeterred by his shortness. He prods Bucky with the back of the hand holding his bottle.

“Now you.”

Afghanistan,” Bucky says finally. “Stint in Iraq.” He takes another sip and mentally decides that once he finishes this beer, he's hightailing it back to the blessed quiet of his apartment.

“And Syria!” Phil adds brightly. “Don’t forget about Syria.”

Bucky feels suddenly cold, his muscles tensing in anticipation. As unobtrusively as possible, he eases his right hand toward the glock at his waist.

“Who the hell are you?” he growls, pitching his voice low.

Phil just grins, his expression harder now. “Relax, _James_. I’m no Avenger. But I’m also not the only one who’s been looking for you. If you want to stay alive, you’ll take your hand off of that gun and follow me. Now.”

He drains the rest of the bottle in one long swallow, and then slips off the stool. Then he walks smoothly out the back door without bothering to check if Bucky’s behind him.

After a second, Bucky gets up and follows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the preceding chapter but I split it in two. And then regretted _that_ when insomnia hit. Enjoy! Let me know what you think! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: The usual, plus discussions of mental illness, suicide, and a complete fudging of international and domestic politics (resemblance to either is purely coincidental!). If you've seen The Boys, you've been warned.
> 
> Have a lovely holiday weekend! :D

Phil slips outside, moving with the now-recognizable sure-footedness of someone who’s likely a trained operative of some kind. He doesn’t once look back to make sure that Bucky’s trailing behind, but they both know that he doesn’t need to.

Almost automatically, Bucky keeps a plausible following distance between them, tugging his cap low over his face. He can feel himself slipping right back into that familiar, detached headspace—his mind coldly assessing, the practiced ease in his gait belying the tension in his limbs. This meeting had been planned in advance; in fact, it’s likely that Phil’s been watching him for some time and waiting for an opportunity to approach him. It’s not as though _The Dive Bar_ had been a frequent haunt—Bucky’s willing to bet that if he hadn’t run out of beer, Phil would have approached him at the park, or even the grocery store. In retrospect, the whole set-up recalls a familiar pattern of establishment suggesting formal training.

Bucky’s training in OTC had included courses on basic tradecraft run by CIA instructors—dead drops, surveillance, MICE—and he remembers enough to recognize the general beats, even though he’d never actually had to recruit for intelligence purposes, which is what he’s guessing might be going on here.

If Phil knows about Syria, then he’s got to be someone very high up in either intelligence or Stark Industries. Right now, Bucky’s betting on the former, since he doesn’t really think SI would even bother with the initial subterfuge. Bucky’s certainly no use in the field, anymore, so either Phil’s after intel or this is an extremely elaborate set-up. 

For a moment he considers heading back the way he came, while they’re still in public. Even if Phil isn’t SI, there are red flags all over the place—a fed would have already shown his badge, for one thing, and the CIA likely would have sent someone he’s familiar with. 

But he can’t deny that he’s a bit curious.

Phil heads straight for a beat-up old Pontiac parked in a proverbial dark alley. When he reaches it, he crouches down, craning his head under the car and running his hand along the sides. He checks the tires, and then the taillights. Finally, he straightens, turning suddenly to Bucky and jerking his head in an unmistakable gesture of invitation before climbing into the front seat.

Bucky could go, now. He has a sense that Phil won’t follow him, at least not tonight, and he could collect Charlie and make that run for it. He’s had a bug-out bag ready since the day he’d woken up in Avengers Tower, and he could be halfway across the country by this time tomorrow.

He can find a quiet place somewhere remote to settle down in. He can reroute his pension and make himself as hard to find as possible. He’ll spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder and side-eyeing every stranger he passes, flinching every time he hears an inevitable Avengers voiceover during the commercial breaks.

After a moment of brief hesitation, Bucky opens the passenger-side door and slides in, keeping his hand firmly on his gun. 

Phil gives the gesture a pointed smirk but puts the car in gear, peeling out at a surprisingly rapid clip for someone who clearly wants to stay incognito. Bucky grips the armrest as Phil accelerates down the narrow street, looking almost cheerful.

“Good for you, James,” Phil tells him. “Or Bucky, I guess, if you prefer. I was kind of expecting you to disappear as soon as my back was turned.”

“How about you cut the bullshit and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Phil looks almost surprised at the bite in Bucky’s voice. “I mean, did you want us to have this chat back in the bar? I wasn’t lying when I said I used to work for SHIELD, you know, but I was actually a field agent. If you want to have a private conversation in New York, these days, a junker is your best bet.”

He pats the steering wheel affectionately and barrels through a yellow.

“No dashboard computers for this old lady. More importantly—as I’m sure you’ve guessed— Stark Industries has wired up half of Manhattan with facial recognition technology, so even the great outdoors is a risky proposition these days.” 

“I’m not hearing any explanations.”

“Right. Well, I won’t keep you in suspense,” Phil says, blithely careening around the taxi that suddenly juts into their lane. Blaring horns follow them as they hurtle through the next intersection.

Bucky mentally adds _combat driving_ to the profile he’s rapidly building. 

“So you know I know about Syria. Or at least, I know that the Avengers—some of them, anyway—hijacked an _extremely_ covert op—in fact, I have no real idea of what _you_ were doing there, let alone them—and in the process managed to friendly-fire seven highly-trained Delta operators out of existence, leaving only James Buchanan Barnes to twist in the wind minus an arm.”

“And you know all of this how?”

“The same way I knew how to find you,” Phil answers. He cocks an eye at Bucky. “Little birdie in Avengers Tower tipped me off. Now— _whoa_ —”

To his credit, Phil’s hands stay steady as Bucky presses the barrel of the glock into his side. 

“Stop the car.”

“You know, this’ll be a lot more productive if you just accept that I’m not actually trying to kill you,” Phil says, sounding more annoyed than alarmed. “You think SI—or the Avengers, for that matter—would go to all this trouble? They’ve got a girl who can control minds and a guy who can float through walls; they don’t need to get up to any of this cloak and dagger horseshit. So stop being so dramatic and put that away and let me finish up. I’m—you know—laying a foundation here.”

Reluctantly, Bucky eases the gun away from Phil. Phil’s probably telling the truth—or at least, everything he’s saying is plausible.

“ _Thank_ you.”

The car decelerates as traffic starts to condense. The crowds of tourists thronging the sidewalk, too, grow larger and slower, a thick molasses stream. 

“Anyway, I’m not telling you this because I’m trying to threaten you, although in retrospect I can see how you might have gotten that impression. I’m telling you this because I need you to believe that I know what I’m talking about, here. What happened to you and your team is not nearly the first time Avengers have caused this sort of collateral damage. You got well and truly fucked over, my friend, but you are not the only one. Not even close. There are hundreds of people out there just like you, and it all gets swept under the rug for them.”

Bucky looks sharply at Phil. “Like me? You mean there were other ops?”

“Well, maybe not _just_ like you,” Phil allows. “As far as I know, that’s the first time they’ve meddled in something that classified since before the Accords. But they’ve been getting away with this kind of stuff ever since they all signed.” 

He hands Bucky a thick manila folder. “Take a look at that.”

Inside the folder are a series of tidily segmented dossiers, each one neatly paper-clipped together.

There’s a picture clipped to the front of the first dossier—it shows a beaming young woman of maybe eighteen, wearing a running singlet and squinting into the sun.

“Madison Avery, rising track star at the University of Oregon,” Phil reports, without taking his eyes off the road. “Last year, Spiderman used webbing to yank her out of the way of a hijacked armored car. The force of it almost snapped her spine in two and left her a quadriplegic. Her family tried to sue—they said that she could have gotten out of the way of the car on her own, that it was far enough away. In the end, they took the pay-off.”

Bucky thinks about the slick SI lawyer and the bored way he’d walked Bucky through the terms of his own settlement agreement.

He flips to the next set of documents. The next picture is of an unsmiling, dark-haired woman. 

“Milena Toth,” Phil says. “Sokovian refugee who was placed with relatives in New York City shortly following—well, you know. She suffered a psychotic break not long after her arrival and was voluntarily committed. Hung herself three days after she was discharged. Afterwards, some of her medical records were leaked, including a psychiatric evaluation suggesting that her mental state could be linked to an incident in which Wanda Maximoff telepathically took control of her mental and bodily functions during the Battle of Sokovia in order to facilitate evacuation.”

“'Took control'?” Bucky repeats incredulously. “What—if this was leaked, why didn’t—?”

“The report was formally redacted, and all traces of the leak were wiped. From the _internet_ , no less, I wasn't even aware that was possible. The psychiatrist who wrote the evaluation was let go for undisclosed reasons, and he left with a six-figure exit package. Can’t prove this one, but I’m guessing he was right on the money. At least seventeen Sokovian refugees confirmed to have been present during the evacuation have since died of seemingly random intraparenchymal hemorrhages.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says faintly.

Phil glances at him. “I actually saw her do that one, you know. I mean, sure, at the time, we all thought—gotta get these people out one way or another, right? Anyway, go ahead and take a look through. Just a small sample, but—you get the idea.”

Bucky obediently sifts through the rest of the file, trying to ignore the sick combination of anger and guilt that’s starting to pool in his gut. Each dossier details an unlucky soul caught in the wake of Avengers justice—collateral damage that sometimes extends to home sand even livelihoods. Most of the incidents seem to be dealt with the same way Bucky’s had been—settlement agreement and an NDA, but every so often a complainant is coincidentally silenced in other ways. One dossier features Hughie Anders, a seven year old child killed when the Scarlet Witch telekinetically hurled a car at the day’s nefarious villain without knowing that Hughie was still buckled up inside. When Hughie’s family had sought to file suit for wrongful death and gross negligence, they had been swiftly found to be in violation of their visa status and deported. 

“How is this not front page news? Why aren’t people screaming bloody murder over this?”

— _Barnes, you understand that by signing this you are stating that you agree and assent that you will waive all rights to_ —

Bucky stares at the clipped school picture of Hughie. His bright brown eyes barely hidden under a mop of dark hair, and his smile proudly reveals a missing front tooth.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Bucky looks up from the file to find that they’re in the middle of Times Square, barely moving thanks to the snarl of taxicabs and jaywalkers clogging the famous intersections. 

Bucky doesn’t go to Times Square if he can help it, and not just because he’s a native New Yorker with no patience for glittering tourist traps—it’s also because looming down on him from every conceivable angle are the Avengers, oppressively larger than life. Everywhere he looks are billboards featuring glamor shots and heroic poses strategically interspersed with brand names and product placement.

“Stark Industries has practically put every other defense contractor out of business at this point, and that’s probably not even a quarter of its revenue stream. Advertisements, endorsements—Black Widow is paid six to seven figures just for tagging a brand name on Instagram, but the ROI that brand will see just from her post will be twice that amount. And that’s not even counting monopolies on microtechnology and renewable energy, and then there’s the lobbyists—did you know, Stark even started another joint venture with the government they’re calling the Department of Damage Control? Took over all the contracts of the cleanup crews who used to come in once all the superheroes got done tearing things up. Stark put whole companies out of business, but now the Avengers get to make money on the front and back end of all the damage they cause. Besides, the Avengers save more than they hurt, right? What’s a few civilians lives in the face of all of _this_?”

Bucky watches as the Falcon soars across the mega screen before appearing in close up, the camera zooming in on his Oakley sunglasses. The picture fades to white as the words _Fly Higher_ resolve across the screen and the Oakley logo loops in the background. Across the street, Spiderman reclines with his feet up and his arms behind his head, a pair of Nikes a pointedly conspicuous addition to his iconic costume.

“It’s a trillion-dollar operation and everybody wants a piece of the pie. As long as the Avengers are making everybody money, do you think anyone cares if some tourist gets hit in the crossfire? And this—” Phil taps the folder now sagging from James’ hands, “Is just the tip of the iceberg. You know that better than anyone. Nobody’s watching the watchmen now, except for us.”

“But this all happened after the Accords,” Bucky says. He feels numb. Most of what Phil’s telling him has crossed his mind before, but only as bitter speculation. Hearing it— _seeing_ it—all confirmed feels like a physical blow. “I thought that’s what the Accords were supposed to do. Provide oversight, accountability. Stop them from being able to _do_ shit like this.”

“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it. _The Accords_ are what kicked all of this off in the first place. Do you even know what’s in them?”

Bucky shakes his head mutely, watching out the window as the billboards start to blur together.

“I do. I happen to know exactly what’s in them, and it cost me everything. Just like it did you. That’s why I want you to help me—help _us_ —take them down.”

 _Take them down?_ Tempting though the prospect is, this guy has to be clinically fucking insane. 

Bucky turns to face him directly. “Who the hell are you?”

Phil grins, all teeth, and then he reaches up and peels off his own face. The grizzled features come away in his hand, leaving behind a blunt-faced man of about thirty-five. Without the mask blurring his hairline, it’s pretty obvious that his dark mop’s likely a wig. He stares at Bucky expectantly, and sure enough, Bucky feels a nagging sense of familiarity. 

“Nano mask,” Phil explains, gesturing with the uncannily fluid-looking mesh. “Also known as a photo-static veil. Can’t exactly show my face around here, these days.”

Bucky waits while “Phil” looks at him, his brows raised expectantly. 

“Really?” he asks finally, sounding a little incredulous. “I mean, it’s a good thing, I guess, but I gotta admit, it’s kind of a blow to the ego.”

Bucky scrutinizes the man’s features, feeling a sinking sense of déjà vu. The last time he hadn’t recognized someone, the guy had turned out to be—

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Bucky had always wondered why Hawkeye had disappeared so abruptly after the Accords had been ratified, and now he has some idea of why.

Hawkeye grins wolfishly at him as Bucky's face alights with recognition. To Bucky, he looks slightly manic.

“I’m the guy who can get you payback.”

* * *

For once, Steve’s calendar is totally free. Nobody’s scheduled any meetings or interviews or photo-shoots for an entire weekend, and there’s certainly no indication that he’ll be expected to leap into action any time soon. 

He can’t remember the last time they’d actually been deployed on anything resembling a mission, come to think of it. Disaster relief after the tsunami six months ago is the closes he’d come to actually doing something befitting _Captain America_ until he’d saved James last week. 

It’s odd, because initially, Steve had gotten the distinct impression that they’d be deployed more on a military basis. He’s not sure if the UN is reluctant to authorize the Avengers to act or if there’s simply been no threats big enough to warrant it.

Maybe the Avengers’ PR is so effective that the worlds’ super-villains have all been frightened underground, or something. Christina would like that.

Steve’s not really sure what to do with his newfound free time. Normally, he spends his time in between engagements trying to distract himself from what he increasingly suspects may be some kind of burgeoning depression, but the prospect of a free weekend urges him to do something productive. 

He could see if anyone else is free and wants to run a team exercise with him. Early on, Tony had worked with a few ex-Special Forces members to develop a series of frighteningly realistic training simulations based on real-life scenarios. They’re mostly smart recreations of domestic and international terrorist situations, oddly enough; simulated hostiles and hostages react intelligently to the Avengers’ movements, enough that they can execute live-fire exercises with reasonable ease.

They used to run team exercises once a week at the very least, and they all still train individually or in pairs, if possible, but last year they’d all been issued personal fitness instructors that had seemingly been hired to focus on aesthetics. Steve’s own instructor had had the good sense to politely ask Steve if he could simply use the state-of-the-art facilities for his own use while Steve made use of their scheduled time in whatever way he saw fit.

In the end, he finds himself scrolling mindlessly through pages of internet news. Christina had been right—enough people had managed to get cell phone videos of Steve and the medevac that there’d been some rumblings about it in the press, but miraculously, they’d seemed mostly uninterested with any follow-up after Steve’s statement. 

Steve thinks that part of the reason is because the statement itself had been painfully dry—despite Christina’s urging, he’d pleaded a poor memory of his conversation with James, and Carter had accordingly redlined her lengthy draft into a boring snippet. Even better—the entire affair had been overshadowed by the Black Widow somehow managing to insert herself into a human trafficking ring bust. There’s no real detail on how, exactly, she’d been involved, but it’s certainly the more exciting story. 

A lurid headline catches his eye. _Homeless Veteran Arrested in Gruesome Murder of Mother of Two._

No. Even without James’ testimony, the NYPD had agreed to hold James’ attacker—there’s no way they would have released him already. Would they?

He clicks on the link, his heart in his throat. 

As it turns out, they hadn’t. This veteran doesn’t look anything like the guy who had attacked James in the park—he’s dark-skinned, and James’ attacker had been an almost pallid white, with a mass of matted pale hair. 

Beyond that, though, the attacks seem almost eerily similar—except for the fact that Kaitlyn Wallace, a thirty-seven year old mother who had been jogging early Monday morning, hadn’t been as lucky as James.

The veteran—a man identified as Anthony Page—had apparently strangled Kaitlyn with such force that she’d suffered something called “internal decapitation”. He’d also stabbed her at least sixteen times, although medical personnel were “currently unable to determine whether the wounds had been made pre-or-post-mortem.” 

There was no indication that Anthony Page had ever met Kaitlyn Wallace. Per the article, Anthony Page had served with distinction, and had been honorably discharged from the Marines after receiving a Purple Heart in Afghanistan. Afterwards, his life had apparently spiraled downward at a rapid clip. The article heavily suggests that Anthony had been suffering from PTSD and drug abuse, although there is no mention of any narcotics in his system at the time of arrest.

Steve closes his laptop, disturbed. It's unreasonable, he knows, but he still feels guilty whenever he sees a story like this one, especially when it takes place in New York—what's the good of all this surveillance if they can't actually keep anyone safe?

Is that what would have happened to James, if Steve hadn’t been there to intervene? 

Maybe he should have made his cause “veteran homelessness” instead of prosthetics. Heck, maybe he should just make it an ancillary venture, anyway. He’s been mildly surprised at how accommodating both Pepper and Christina have been, now that he’s finally shown some interest in marketing his name—might as well throw it behind something he actually believes in, instead of loaning it out to Calvin Klein.

Steve sinks back into the couch and lets his gaze drift. It catches on the handsomely bound leather sketchbook that he hasn’t touched for months. It feels like every time he tries, there’s some kind of PR crisis or he’s hit with whatever the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block is.

Despite the gruesome news article, though, he feels oddly optimistic. Maybe today's the day.

Sure enough, his cell phone buzzes the second he touches pencil to paper. Steve sighs, and puts the pencil down. When he sees that the number is blocked, he frowns—they’d all been issued new StarkPhones, with the very latest in anti-spam software and privacy features, and only a handful of people should even be _able_ to call him on this number. 

“Hello?”

“Steve?” The voice is soft, but familiar. Hope blooms in Steve’s chest. “This is James Barnes. I wondered if I could take you up on that talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!!! Come talk to me in the comments! :D :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boys is back!! In celebration, have 7K words of exposition!
> 
> Warnings: Everything. Please note that any politics herein serve the story, are not intended as a reflection on my views or on any current events.

“Bravo.”

Clint claps lazily as Bucky hangs up the phone and starts inputs the details of his meeting with Steve into the phone’s calendar. “I’m impressed, Barnes. And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

Bucky shoots him an irritated glance. 

“Seriously, man, that was great. Very sincere,” Scott adds, his face almost absurdly encouraging considering the ease of the task at hand. 

Scott Lang—slight, blandly good-looking—radiates the kind of twitchy, nervous energy that might remind Bucky of Teddy, except that Scott is clearly the farthest thing from a hard-bitten Special Forces operator. He’s one of the ‘team’, Clint says, and Bucky’s unsurprised to learn that Scott is their tech guy but absolutely floored when Clint informs him that Scott did time in San Quentin for robbery for three years.

“Once we get him inside, he can hack the SI mainframe and we’ll have everything we need,” Clint had said. “And that’s where you come in.”

Even though it’s hardly his first rodeo, it had been easier than Bucky had expected to call up Steve and propose meeting up to talk more about the prosthetics project. He’d anticipated at least some suspicion—or at least wariness—on Steve’s part, but Steve had eagerly agreed to meet Bucky in the little café a few blocks from his neighborhood. It’s nowhere near Stark Tower and well-outside what they’re pretty sure the range of SI surveillance is, but Steve had said yes without a second thought. 

“Try wounded, can you do wounded?” Clint had asked, as they’d strategized how to approach reeling Steve in. “Cap’s a sucker for a damsel in distress. But don’t lay it on too thick, okay; he’s got to respect you as a fellow soldier. Like, he _occasionally_ busts out a sarcastic quip in the interest of male bonding, but—”

“Jesus, Barton, I got it,” Bucky had told him, exasperated. “I was in the military for over a decade, I know how to do ‘male bonding’.”

“No jokes about cutting off ears, or whatever you Delta types do,” Clint had countered, wrinkling his nose. “You know what, could you just pretend you were in the Peace Corps?”

When they’d first arrived at the dirty, abandoned-looking warehouse Clint had dubbed headquarters, Bucky had been fairly unimpressed. He was willing to bite at least a little once ‘Phil’ had revealed his actual identity—Bucky had been leaning towards “crackpot hacker” before Clint had taken off the mask—but he hadn’t been truly convinced until Clint had walked him over to what appeared to be a broken service elevator and taken them what had seemed like miles underground. 

The doors had opened onto a vast, well-lit industrial space hosting clusters of computer monitors, robotic-looking tech, and what looked like futuristic weaponry.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” Clint had told him.

“Who built this place?” Bucky had asked, staring around him at the futuristic technology. He’s uncomfortably reminded of the SI lab he’d woken up in.

“Hank Pym.”

“ _Pym Technologies_ Hank Pym?”

“That’s the one. Luckily for us, he’s almost as paranoid as he should be. Back then, he built this mostly because he was worried people would steal his tech, but then he had to go on the run after the Accords. This was his secondary location in case anything went wrong.”

Scott had come running in before Bucky could ask Clint exactly what had gone wrong for Hank, his hand already outstretched. 

Unlike Clint, Scott is clearly an open book. Within five minutes of meeting him Bucky had made a mental note to pump him for further information about Clint’s motivation—he’s guessing that Scott either won’t think twice about divulging the information, or will accidentally let something slip. 

Clint had been visibly cagey when Bucky had asked him about his own involvement on the drive to the warehouse. 

Scott, he already knows, is on the run for helping—or trying to help—Hank Pym, after the government tried to strong-arm him into signing the Accords and handing over his technology, which apparently can manipulate molecular structures. 

That makes sense, but Bucky still can’t figure out why Hawkeye—one of the “Original Six”, as they’re sometimes referred to—is so hell-bent on revenge. 

_“Because I’m a real fucking superhero and Stark Industries is like—like Skynet. Or, you know. What’s the one from the Simpsons? C’mon, the one that—_ god, _you’re boring, you’re lucky you’re pretty, you know that?_ Globex! _That’s the one._

That’s the best explanation that Bucky had gotten from Clint, and they both know its bullshit. Bucky is no stranger to the darker side of black ops, but he also knows enough about cross-agency rivalries to know that SHIELD wasn’t exactly run by nuns, either.

“So what now?” Bucky had asked, looking around. Surely the ‘team’ Clint had referred to on the drive over can’t just be the three of them.

“Now,” Clint had said, reaching into the pocket of Bucky’s jeans and sliding out his phone, “You make a phone call.”

“What?” 

“You heard me. I’m putting all of us at risk taking you here, and I don’t want you pussying out on this. I have it on good authority that you’ve got the personal cell phone number of Captain America himself.”

“How did you—”

“The same way I knew about Syria. The same way that I know that he wants you to be in this advanced prosthetic program they’re apparently cooking up now.”

Clint had waggled the phone at him. “Moment of truth, Barnes.”

Bucky had stared at him. The fact that Clint knew these intimate details should be have been setting off all kinds of alarm bells, but instead he’d felt a kind of savage hope bloom inside his chest. However Clint’s getting his intel—whoever they’ve got inside—is high up enough that they’re able to get this kind of information. 

Maybe they’ve got a shot.

He’d grabbed the phone.

* * *

“So,” he says now, stuffing the phone back in his pocket, “Now that I’ve got my little coffee date all lined up, you want to tell me what the plan is?”

“Absolutely!” Clint says, waving an arm grandly toward a complicated looking set-up. “Scott?”

Scott fiddles with the contraption for a second, squinting in concentration. A moment later, a bright blue holograph flickers into life. It’s almost as tall as Bucky, and incredibly detailed. Bucky recognizes it immediately.

“Avengers Tower,” Clint confirms, watching Bucky’s face. “Our target area of interest. Codenamed Shithole.” 

Scott grins. “We keep forgetting to actually call it that, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” 

Bucky feels a reluctant smile tug on his lips. “Really lends an air of legitimacy.” 

“Right? Anyway, in very short answer to your question—with the illustrious Mr. Rogers as your escort, you’ll be able to get Scott here past Stark’s security systems. Once he’s in, he’ll be able to tap into the system and, hopefully, get what we need. And then—”

“Wait, wait,” Bucky interrupts. “Get him in? What, am I supposed to say he’s my date, or something?”

“Well, I’ll be about _yay_ tall,” Scott tells him, pinching his fingers together. 

Bucky frowns, and then realizes—“The Pym Particles?”

“Yep.”

No wonder Stark wants to get his hands on this technology. “Sounds like it hurts.”

“Actually, not really! See—”

“Later,” Clint says, giving Scott a significant look. 

Scott’s eyebrows raise and he announces that he’s got to go “feed the fish”, spinning on his heel and heading back down the length of the warehouse.

Clint shakes his head as he watches Scott go. “He’s a good guy,” he says finally, and Bucky can’t quite read his tone. 

Clint leans over to fiddle with something on the hologram, and Bucky clears his throat.

“Yeah. So—is it just us? The—four of us, I guess?”

Clint looks up, startled. “Oh, uh, no—well, there’s five. Hank and Zemo aren’t here, or I would have introduced you.”

“Zemo?” Bucky’s heart sinks. Just the five of them. 

“Yeah. He’s from Sokovia, actually—black ops, real grouchy, you’ll like him.”

“Where’d you find him?”

Bucky doesn’t know much about Sokovia—he’s done his fair share of work in the Eastern Bloc, but Sokovia wasn’t exactly a major player. More of a pass-through for bigger forces. 

“He found me, actually,” Clint says absently, still poking at the tech. Finally, with another flicker, the hologram reveals the internal structure of the Tower, with entrances and exits lit up. 

“There we go. Okay. So you’ll be able to smuggle Scott in, and you’ll have the easiest part of that—won’t even know he’s there. Now, Hank’s been able to develop cloaking mechanisms for Scott—jamming frequency that should fool Tony’s AI system, fabric that should be able to block whatever x-ray specs they’ve got Falcon wearing, that kind of thing—but there’s at least one layer of security that Scott won’t be able to penetrate without entering the Quantum Realm.”

At Bucky’s questioning look, Clint waves a hand. “I don’t know what that is, either. Anyway, the first three floors of Avengers Tower are strictly for show—restaurants and high-end merch. Touristy stuff. Then you go up, and you’ve got your usual corporate hell—IT, legal, marketing, press rooms, yadda, yadda, _yadda_ , and _then_ —”

The hologram zeros in on the floors two-thirds of the way up. “Here’s where it gets interesting. They do a lot of the tech work in their offsite facilities, yes, but Tony needs access to his stuff at all times in case—I don’t know—inspiration strikes. Also, I’ve got it on good authority that he doesn’t really trust the staff out there these days. So here—” Clint indicates a set of floors which glow softly at his touch, “Is where you’ve got Tony’s personal R&D, which is basically off-limits to anyone Tony hasn’t personally approved.”

Here—” Another set of floors light up, “Is Medical, where they’ve got Helen Cho working on crazy cyborg stuff, with which you and I are both personally familiar. Everything else up here—” Clint gestures broadly as various floors start to light up, “Is where all the dirty classified stuff gets itself did. After they cut up your team, they probably debriefed it in a conference room somewhere around here. Very few people are allowed up past a certain level because of this—even legal’s mostly on a need-to-know basis, they’re down on fifteen working on, I don’t know—shareholder suits. Public stuff.”

"To even get up there you need clearance from head of security and a personal escort, and then Tony’s got every room wired and his personal AI is going to be scanning for anything that might be listening in. Now, we aren’t as worried about the general room scanners, or JARVIS—Tony’s AI—since Scott will be be shielded by Hank’s technology. He shouldn’t be picked up even by the full-body scans at every entrance, since you'll be wearing something that will shield Scott from that. Unfortunately, you’ll also have to walk through what’s essentially a mini-MRI. We can’t bypass that. It’ll neutralize Scott—and anything electronic that isn’t supposed to be there—in a heartbeat.”

“Really? But what about—cell phones? Pacemakers?”

“That’s all cleared in advance. Cell-phones go through a separate scanner, pacemakers—I don’t know, maybe they get a by. But the point is, we can’t figure out a way around it. It’s too dangerous to Scott to make a test run if we’re not sure he can get through, and without Hank’s cloaking technology he’d be clocked at any other entrance-way.”

“Sure, but _I’ll_ have to go through this—MRI thing, won’t I?” 

Clint smiles, his eyes gleaming. “Nope. Steve isn’t going to make you go through all that. The first few times, maybe, but our source says he’s been chomping at the bit these days. Better than that—he _likes_ you. Went to bat for you, apparently, and my guess is that Steve’s going to get all huffy at the fact that you’re being treated like you can’t be trusted, and he’ll start trying to cut corners. Once that happens, you’ll be carrying Scott directly into R&D.”

Bucky is surprised to feel a mild stab of guilt. He isn’t to be trusted. He thinks about Captain America’s seemingly guileless face.

“And if he doesn’t? You’re putting an awful lot of faith on Captain America’s capacity for indignation. Plus, I mean—the guy might not have a choice. From the way he was talking he’s just, I don’t know—sponsoring this thing, or headlining it, or something. He might not actually even be there when I have to go in.” 

Clint smirks. “I’m so glad you asked. Assuming Cap really likes you as much as our source seems to think, that shouldn’t be a problem. These—,” he says, indicating a higher set of floors, “Are the apartments where our dear Avengers lay their heads to sleep. All fully furnished and tastefully decorated, I’m sure. Not likely to be anything incriminating in there. Except—”

The hologram suddenly darkens, and a series of what looks like piping suddenly flashes red. “Notice anything about the vents?”

Bucky leans in. Lit up like this, it’s obvious, since he’s already got an idea of what Clint’s getting at—

“The apartments and the secure floors are connected by those vents.”

Clint points a sardonic finger-gun. “Exactly. After the first few floors, they’re much more concerned with cyber-security than physical security. The Avengers have their own private entrances and exits, without the scans and security measures. Once you’re in, Scott can get around anywhere in the vents undetected, and he can hitch a ride back out the same way.”

“And JARVIS won’t see him there?”

“Nope. That we can test out, and Hank’s jamming tech should work well enough for close to an hour. You'll have to make sure he gets back to you in time to get him out.”

Bucky stares at the hologram. The red veins representing the vents give Avengers Tower the appearance of sinister life. “You sure? Stark’s an asshole, but he’s also the asshole who figured out artificial intelligence.”

“Tony’s a genius, sure. He’s also extremely arrogant. Thinks he’s the smartest guy out there. More importantly, he thinks that anyone he’s got to be remotely worried about is going to think _exactly like him_. There’s a reason Hank Pym’s on the run, and it’s not because he’s a second-tier Tony Stark.”

“Fine.” Bucky looks at the Avengers apartments. The hologram has even included little furniture approximations. A bed, a table, a lamp. “And how exactly am I supposed to get Captain America to invite me in for tea?”

“You can’t swing something that simple? I thought you D-boys were supposed to be good at this sort of thing.”

Bucky thinks again about Captain America—Steve—and the hopeful, almost shy look on his face when he’d told Bucky about the prosthetic program. Unwittingly, he’s already sort of laid the foundation for this by telling Steve that he doesn’t want any publicity.

“And,” Clint adds, his voice overly casual. “Our source says he’s lonely these days. Needs a friend. Someone to _talk_ to. This’ll be the easiest mark you’ve ever had, and it's the _other_ reason we need you. Our source doesn't have a direct line to what's happening with the Avengers, and this will be a good way to track what they're up to."

Bucky doesn’t remind Clint that he was Delta, not CIA—his personal ops tended to involve less espionage and more shooting. 

He’s also rusty at the whole socializing thing. Talking to Clint is the longest conversation he’s had with a human that he isn’t paying to listen to him. Maybe he should go back to group therapy and practice before he meets up with Steve?

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Atta boy.” 

“But, wait—” Bucky says suddenly. He mentally kicks himself for not thinking this through sooner. “If they’re going to be working on my arm, they’ll need medical records, right? And they’ll do a background check. There’s no way someone doesn’t put this together.”

“Ah,” Clint winces theatrically. “Well, if that’s the hold-up, I’ve got some real bad news for you, pal. You’ve already been made.”

Bucky’s stomach drops. “What?”

“Yeah, they clocked you way back when Steve first brought you in. But—hey, man, relax. I told you we’ve got someone in there. They ran your name and facial recognition scan and you came up with a bunch of classified flags. You were supposed to be brought to the attention of a few people at the tippy-top—some SHIELD higher-ups, Tony Stark himself. They were able to wipe the alerts from the security files, and then spent the next few days trying to find you in the system. The only thing they were able to dig up was the NDA—sounds like there was a slip-up there, and you’re just in with the other pile of casualties. The interesting thing, though, is that there were _two_ NDAs on file for you—the standard Stark Industries settlement agreement, but _also_ a Classified Information NDA. Standard _military_. And our source couldn’t find any record of the Avengers having a joint-military operation anywhere during the time period of your signing.”

“We ran it past our CIA contact and they were able to dig up the redacted version of what happened. Black-ops mission gone wrong in Syria, eight casualties, seven KIA. Nothing beyond that though, and nothing to explain what the Avengers were doing there. But it was enough to know that you were our guy.”

“And then you went looking for me,” Bucky said grimly. 

“Yep,” Clint answers cheerfully. “Handy that you were in Delta, by the way; almost anything interesting about you is already redacted or covered up. I mean, that’s not to say that someone at Stark couldn’t find that NDA with some digging, but you’ll look clean for the background check. Our source’ll be running interference, too.” 

“Who _do_ you have in there?”

Whoever it is has got to be someone with extremely high clearance in both legal and security.

Clint smiles thinly. “That, unfortunately, is a need-to-know basis only.”

“Excuse me?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “I’m the one out here risking his neck here. Probably quite literally.”

“It’s for their protection, not yours,” Clint says. “Unfortunately for you, you’re the one most likely to get captured, here, and you could put them at risk, too.”

Bucky scoffs. He’s never been a POW, sure, but he doesn’t need to wonder about his endurance, especially when the mission is something this personal. “You think I’d give them anything? I’d quite happily die before telling those fuckers the time of day.”

“No,” Clint says grimly. “I don’t think you’d break. But they’ve got a girl up there who can—sort of—read minds, Barnes. Not to mention whatever-the-fuck Vision can do. For all I know, one of them can pull the information right out of your head. If this all goes tits-up for us, that person is our only failsafe. Maybe they can at least dump everything onto the internet, or something.” 

“So then what do you need me for? Why can’t this—whoever—find your intel? Or whatever?”

Clint shakes his head. “She can’t get it. I mean—damnit. You didn’t hear that. This—okay, whatever went down in Syria is so hush-hush that it’s what tipped us off in the first place. Shit’s been getting more and more secretive up there and our contact—alright, _she_ , fuck me—is fairly well-placed to get us what we need, but even breaking a few rules she can’t figure out what the hell the Avengers were doing in Syria. Whatever it is, it’s airtight—and that means it’s something big. Something we need to know about. The only thing we know is that it _may_ be connected to something called Project TAHITI.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fucked if we know. Some poor employee in Information Security caught the name in a data lake of all places, brought it to our source’s attention. She hadn’t heard of it. Next thing she knew, the employee had completely disappeared—HR has him down as voluntarily terminating his employment, and our girl’s been unable to contact him through any channels. Apparently he was recently brought over on an H-1B. Not a lot of friends, nobody looking for him. Social media shows that he took a job at a data science company in Michigan, of all places, and when she tried to track him down there, she found that the company doesn’t exist.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep. So whatever the fuck we can find on this Project TAHITI, and then, uh—this.”

He pulls out a tablet that looks something like an iPad and powers it up. “This,” he says, as he busily taps the screen, is “Project EDITH.”

He rotates the screen so that it faces Bucky, but all he sees is, inexplicably, a picture of what looks like an ordinary pair of eyeglasses.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s an acronym. Stands for—Every Dick Is Tony—whatever, stands for something narcissistic, I’m sure, we don’t actually know.”

“I know what an acronym is. That’s a picture of glasses, Barton.”

“Nope. These glasses are the user interface to the entire Stark Industries network. It also allows the user backdoor access to the world’s largest telecommunication companies. The wearer can hack any target’s personal information and communications in seconds. More importantly, it controls Stark Industries’ global defense satellites, and, I imagine, those of the United States military, if Ross gets his way. Imagine a line of those things. You could kill whoever you wanted, instantly. It’s not live yet, but it’s definitely in production.”

“ _Jesus_. Wait, what—how the fuck will something like that get approved?” 

“The exact same way Project Insight did, I expect. You remember that, right?”

“Of course.” Bucky remembers. Of course he remembers. He was overseas at the time, but its difficult to remember that millions of people were almost wiped from existence in seconds.

“Well, SHIELD’s still functioning, you know—yeah, I guess you would. Lower profile, but they’re there. Coulson—Phil Coulson, the director—he’s got a whole team who does Avengers clean-up duty, lower level stuff. They’re working hand-in-hand with Stark Industries. Not HYDRA anymore, as far as I know, but déjà vu all over again. They thought it was a good idea once—”

He shrugs. 

“So wait, okay—what do we need intel for? This is big enough now, why don’t we just—go to the press, or dump it on the internet?”

Like they did the first time, he doesn’t add.

Clint shakes his head. “No proof. Our source is aware of it, but can’t access anything that would expose Stark Industries. The only schematics they’ve been able to get just show user interface with Stark Industries, and unfortunately, that’s not illegal.”

“But wouldn’t that include the defense satellites?”

“They could just deny that, claim there are—I don’t know, safety mechanisms in place, or something. Remember that the Avengers are running a 24/7 goodwill campaign here. How could the company that’s pledged to give us all clean energy do something like this? Captain America would never approve of it. No, we need something more definitive, or we’ll be shot down and buried.”

Bucky stares at the picture of the glasses. After Insight, his unit had actually been tasked with rooting out a few suspected HYDRA cells in Belarus and Cambodia. There’d been a certain grim satisfaction in it. 

The outrage he’d felt—they’d all felt—when they’d learned that SHIELD was still functioning—under more or less the same leadership, in fact—had been palpable.

“Alright, so. Now you know what we’re looking for, let’s meet the other team.”

He flips the tablet to show some baby-faced kid of about seventeen.

Bucky squints. “Who—” 

“Peter Parker, senior at Midtown High School in Queens. Weighted GPA of 5.1 Also known as Spiderman.”

Bucky’s eyes widen and he leans in to look closer at the tablet. “No _way_.”

“Hard to believe, right?”

Bucky can feel Clint’s eyes on him as he examines the picture. The kid doesn’t look old enough to shave.

“We think that’s the reason he’s always in costume—wouldn’t want it getting out that a minor is working as a military contractor.”

“How the hell did you figure this out?”

Clint grins. “Tony may be paranoid, but clandestine he is not. We cross-referenced all new Stark Industries employees with the Spiderman introduction timeline and he came out smack in the middle. At first even we didn’t believe it, but it was easy enough for Scott to sneak in to his apartment and confirm.”

“Jesus.” That explains why Spiderman is so corny, at least. But still—a _kid_. 

Bucky wonders whether Peter had been in Syria.

Right,” Bucky says slowly. “Okay, so—boy wonder.”

“And a possible Achilles’ hell,” Clint muses. “Tony seems pretty attached to him. Also, kids are stupid. Next—”

He swipes the screen to show Sam Wilson, grinning in his goggles. “Falcon. Low-level threat at best—without that glider he’s a glorified foot-soldier. Not a high priority.”

“Ex-military?”

“Pararescue,” Clint confirms. “I didn’t know him that well—he mostly hung around with Steve. He was okay, I guess. Anyway—”

He swipes the screen.

Steve’s official helmet and cowl does nothing for his jawline, Bucky decides. He ignores the strange feeling in his stomach that he doesn’t really want to analyze as he examines the bright blue eyes and full lips.

“The man himself. Super-soldier, obviously, but not a huge threat unless you’re in range of that shield.”

Despite himself, Bucky asks, “How—what is he like? I mean, they sell him as such a boy scout, but then he’s all wrapped up in this shit.”

Clint looks interested. “Does it matter?”

Bucky can’t read his expression. He lets his face go stony. “What do you think?”

Clint shrugs innocently, a small smirk on his face. “He’s—well, I was pretty surprised he’d signed in the first place. The way they market him is pretty insufferable, I know, but he’s actually kind of like that. He really is all about saving kittens from trees and doing the right thing.” His smile fades. “Or at least he was when I knew him. If he’s willing to go along with all this, something’s definitely changed. Moving on.”

He swipes again and Bucky involuntarily recoils at the next grinning face. It’s a glamor shot, emphasizing long flowing hair and big blue eyes. 

The Witch.

“Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch. Extremely dangerous. As far as I know, her powers include telekinesis and some weird form of telepathy, but that could have expanded by now. Willingly signed up to get experimented on by HYDRA, so probably not all there upstairs.”

Telekinesis. 

“It looked like she threw this red light.”

Clint nods. “I don’t really know what it is, but yeah. As far as I can tell, it’s basically pure energy, and it can cut through—well, probably anything. I don’t know how well she can control it, so that makes her especially scary.”

Bucky clenches his fist. That’s what he remembers most, about what happened—those brilliant flashes of red light in the darkness, blinding him. That and the screams.

“And—what was she like?”

Clint’s face is closed off. “When I knew her, she was—a kid. Scared. Probably easily malleable.”

Bucky stares at the picture. The glamor smile looks like a sneer to him.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get to her, but we’ll figure something out. Next.”

Bucky frowns at the next picture. Vision isn’t heavily featured—probably because he doesn’t seem to have much of a personality—but he’s always sort of creeped Bucky out.

“Vision. Tony’s second attempt at artificial intelligence, because God forbid he learn from a mistake. I guess Vision just does whatever the hell they tell him, or something, but this guy is the big guns. See that jewel thing there?”

He points at what looks like an amber stone on Vision’s forehead.

“Yeah.”

“That’s something called an Infinity Stone. They got it out of Loki’s scepter, after New York. Thor told us about them—they’re these items of incredible power, there’s only like six of them in the universe, or something, and as long as he’s got it Vision is basically invincible. My guess is that unless we get it out of his head, somehow, we aren’t gonna find a way around him.”

“Great.” Not for the first time, Bucky wonders if he shouldn’t just let this all go. Of the five Avengers he’s seen so far, it sounds like at least three could take him out without breaking a sweat. 

He thinks for a second of Charlie, lolling in front of his fake fireplace.

Clint swipes again, but this time he doesn’t give any commentary—just stares at the picture, his jaw tightening.

Black Widow is probably Bucky’s least favorite Avenger, and not least because he doesn’t really get why she’s there. She’s hot, sure, but her thing was—apparently—being a spy, and her cover’s long since been blown. He doesn’t doubt that she’s got some fighting ability but she’s seriously tiny, and—unless there’s something he doesn’t know—not impervious to your run-of-the-mill handgun.

Also, she always seems kind of smug. The sort of woman who knows she’s hot shit and doesn’t mind rubbing it in your face. 

“Natasha Romanov,” Clint says finally. His voice is rough.

From the look on Clint’s face, Bucky guesses that there’s a history there. 

“Former KGB. Good in close quarters. Don’t underestimate her. She’s surprisingly good at making you believe that you can trust her, but make no mistake—she’s not on anyone’s side but her own. If she’s loyal to anyone, it’s SHIELD, but I’m sure the KGB thought the same back in the day.”

He clears his throat. “Also, she likes to use that nano mask and unlike me, she’s got an unlimited supply. We should probably come up with some kind of call-and-response. So.”

He swipes so hard that Bucky’s afraid he’ll crack the screen.

Up pops a picture of Tony Stark’s unsmiling face, smugness somehow radiating from the screen.

“The reason we’re all here—Tony fucking Stark. His main problems are that he’s both unstable and a genius, and he’s got a whole lotta money to back that up.”

“You don’t say,” Bucky says dryly. 

“He’s pretty narcissistic, but that’s obvious. What you don’t know is that he’s also maybe an alcoholic, possibly manic, and dangerously paranoid, and it’s gotten worse the longer I’ve known him. It’s half the reason he built the Iron Legion in the first place. Sokovia was all him, too—invented a murder-robot with artificial intelligence hell-bent on killing everyone.”

“And how the fuck did that happen, exactly? I feel like nobody ever got the full story there.”

“Well, I mean, he didn’t exactly tell us what he was doing until Ultron showed up, and by then it was too late. I think he’d gotten really paranoid after New York, and he thought he could—I don’t know, what the hell’d he call it—a ‘bouncer’, or something, in case there was another alien invasion.”

“So then—why was it evil, exactly?”

Clint shrugs. “You got me. Apparently, it got into the internet somehow and decided we all needed to die, which I guess kind of makes sense. Probably found some furry porn, or something. But anyway, the point is—Tony built a fucking killer robot that tried to destroy the world, and his solution to _that_ was to build _another_ , even more powerful robot. I mean, look—in 2010 he goes up against the entire United States government and says that they can’t tell him what to do. Then, what—five years later, he’s the guy who spearheads government control, not just for him but for everyone who could be _considered_ an enhanced individual.”

“So what the fuck happened?” Bucky asks. “I mean, why would he argue for more control? I always figured it was just—I don’t know, the government.”

“I only know what—Black Widow told me. See, to understand all this you have to know about Thaddeus Ross.”

“Ross. He used to be Lieutenant General,” Bucky says, frowning.

“Yeah. Secretary of State, now. Total war-hawk, real big on the bio-enhancement arms race, too. And it turns out Tony’s been working with Ross for a lot longer than we all thought.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “So this was all hush-hush, but back in like—oh-nine, they had Banner working on recreating the super-soldier serum, only they didn’t tell him it was weapons development. They said it was to protect soldiers for radiation or something, I don’t know. Anyway, he tested it on himself. Obviously you know what happened there.”

Bucky nods. He’s seen the footage from New York.

“What you don’t know is that after that Ross went kind of nuts and started trying to hunt him down. Wanted to weaponize him, or at least whatever was making him tick. Banner didn’t want any part of it, but while they were chasing him they fucking tried the serum _again_ , this time on a British Spec Ops guy named Emil Blonsky.”

Clint swipes the screen a few times, eventually bringing up a square-jawed blond with Slavic features.

“Whatever they gave him made him go completely psychotic. Eventually, he hulked out too, only much worse. He basically tried to kill everyone he came across. No control. Banner eventually subdued him, and they took him to a controlled facility. So now Ross has a Hulk all ready to go now, but for some reason SHIELD convinces Tony to step in and convince him to keep Blonsky locked up.”

“Why Tony? Why not just SHIELD?”

Clint shrugs. “He worked with Tony a lot back when he was a defense contractor, so maybe they thought Tony could appeal to him on a personal level. Honestly, I think they were dangling Tony like meat on a hook. He went after Tony’s tech, you know—remember those hearings? I thought any relationship was over after that. But that was back in Tony’s _maverick_ phase.”

Clint sneers slightly. 

Bucky remembers those hearings, which had, of course, immediately gone viral. Iron Man had been a pretty controversial figure—half the guys thought he was great, half the guys thought he was a rich ass-hat way out of his lane—but everyone had enjoyed him flipping the metaphorical bird to a bunch of stuffy senators.

“But then there was Sokovia. And then, back in 2016—and I’m serious, this is really how it happened—the mom of some kid who was in Sokovia manages to get some face time with Tony, and he starts feeling all guilty. This happens right on the heels of a mission gone south in Laos that the Avengers had gotten some bad press over. So now Tony’s feeling _responsible_ , and he’s going through another manic patch, so what does he do?”

“Goes right to Ross,” Bucky says grimly. “You weren’t kidding about the over-compensation.”

“Gift-wrapped a team of bio-enhanced agents and handed them right to him. Ross was overjoyed. Now he’s got his own super-powered Blackwater to play with, and Tony gets to feel exonerated. Nothing’s his fault, he’s a hero, everyone loves him.”

“But the Sokovia Accords were a UN resolution,” Bucky says, frowning. “Wouldn’t that make them a UN taskforce?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “No. C’mon, Barnes. Like you said, Sokovia Accords were a fucking _UN resolution_. Legally, that doesn’t really mean a whole lot, at least in America. Sure, we ratified it, but that doesn’t actually mean we have to do anything it says since it’s not a law, or a treaty, and let’s be honest, who’s going to stop us? I’m not a lawyer, but one that I actually trust walked me through all of this when it first went down—on an international level, the Accords are basically a fake agreement between a bunch of countries that says they can regulate the personal lives of a bunch of American citizens. And Vision, I guess, I don’t know what the hell they’d consider him. Intellectual property, maybe.”

“So then what the hell is it _for_?” Bucky asks impatiently. “If it’s all just bullshit.”

“Well for one thing, it got the rest of the world off our backs. It was _incredibly_ good optics—the biggest guns the United States has actually asking the rest of the world to keep them in check. It was like Europe’s wet-dream come true. And in the US—well, it might be bullshit, but everyone’s perfectly happy pretending its good law. You wanna know what happens if they decide that you’re subject to the Accords?”

Clint’s jaw clenches. He’s not looking at Bucky.

“Maybe you end up in an underwater prison, which is probably where they’re holding Blonsky. It’s also where they’ve probably got Hope, Hank’s daughter. They’d been on the run since after the signing, but the government caught up to them eventually. He got away. She didn’t.”

Bucky sees Clint’s hands tighten on the screen. “Maybe you just sell out and go along with it, like our boy Steve. Maybe you disappear. Or maybe you just end up dead.”

Bucky is wise enough not to push. He can sense that Clint’s toeing the line of whatever it is that’s caused him to take on this crusade, and he’s desperately curious, but he recognizes the look in Clint’s eyes. 

He looks away. It’s probably the same thing Clint has seen in his own.

“So what’s the endgame?” he asks finally, when the minute trembling of Clint’s hand subsides. “Why do all this? What do they _want_?”

“What, you mean besides the billions of dollars they stand to make?” Clint asks, his voice harsh. “You really have to ask?”

Bucky doesn’t. He’s seen it over and over again, in fanatic warlords and drug cartels and heads of state

Clint swipes the screen again, back to that picture of the innocent-looking glasses. 

“The same thing that HYDRA wanted,” he answers himself, looking suddenly tired. “The same thing that every super-villain of the week wants. Power. Control. Tony used to talk about a ‘suit of armor around the world’. Tony needs control, always, and I guess he figured it was easier to get what he wanted by playing nice with the government. Ross, well—it’s everything _he’s_ wanted, right there for the taking. If you thought America was a juggernaut before—I mean, the full might of Stark Industries makes the atom bomb look quaint. This thing—” he gestures with the touchscreen, “It can call in a satellite-guided drone strike anywhere on Earth. In seconds. Any war is over before it starts. And that’s _without_ factoring in the Avengers, and any other super-being that happens to pop up.”

Bucky feels numb. It doesn’t matter who they’ve got on the inside—Clint’s garage-band resistance won’t be able to put a dent in this arsenal. 

“Everything’s not entirely fucked, though,” Clint adds, as though he’s read Bucky’s mind. “We’ve got a couple things going for us.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs humorlessly. “Please, I’d love to hear this.”

He needs to hear it.

“Well, for one thing, like I said, the legality of the Accords is shaky at best. We ratified them by way of an executive agreement, which means that they’ve got the legal enforceability of an executive order. Want to know why they didn’t go for a Congressional-executive agreement?”

Bucky shrugs.

“That would have made it binding like regular legislation, and guess what—you can’t enact an inherently unconstitutional law. But Ellis made a good end-run around that—it would have been political suicide to question the Accords, and everyone knows it. It makes Ellis look good, and no contrarians in Congress are going to make noise about it. Everyone’s happy and even with the election coming up, nobody’s likely to touch it as long as the Avengers are America’s sweethearts.”

“But let’s say there’s, oh—some controversy. Enough to grab the public’s attention. Like, maybe the revelation that Stark Industries is piloting Project Insight 2.0.”

Clint cheerfully taps the picture of Project EDITH. 

“The public might not care about a piece of unconstitutional legislation, but _everyone_ remembers DC, and they _are_ going to care if they think that there are guns figuratively pointed at their heads again. Especially with Captain America on the other side this time. There’ll be blood in the water for the Republicans, and the DNC will turn on Ellis to save their own skin. The Avengers, the Accords, Stark Industries—they’ll all get the kind of spotlight they _don’t_ want. SHIELD will be buried for good this time. Hell, if Ellis doesn’t get primaried out, his opponent could probably run on revoking ratification.”

“So, there’s that. And if they try to bury this—well, the rest of the world’s intelligence agencies aren’t exactly happy that SHIELD and a team of military contractors are basically forming a super-powered hegemony. Neither, as it happens, is the CIA. We’ve got a few contacts there, and at MI-6—and to be honest, at this point I’m not above working with GRU.”

“And you want to give _them_ this information?”

“I mean, am I going to hand over the EDITH specs to the Russians? No. But also _yes_ , I’d like to give them enough to make this an international incident. I’d like to drag them before the World Security Council and make them answer for all of this shit, I’d like to plaster every face in that pile of victims onto a billboard. And then I’d like the CIA and the United States to step in and shut this whole thing down. EDITH is bad enough, but I’m guessing whatever the hell TAHITI is could blow this whole thing out of the water in a very real and federal super-max kind of way. Look—”

He jabs at the screen until Tony Stark’s face pops back up. “All we have to do is get to Stark Industries. It’s still a corporation, right? This whole thing falls apart without Tony. Ross may be giving them the legitimacy they need, but Tony is the guy bankrolling it. He’s the one controlling the technology _and_ the Avengers. And sure, they’re super-beings, but – well, in the end, you can’t fight city hall.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Bucky can’t help but ask. “If we try this and it doesn’t work? The government protects Stark, nobody turns against the Avengers? Or they—I don’t know. Stage a coup, or something?”

“Well, then,” Clint says slowly. He taps the screen a few more times, and then Bucky is looking at all six Avengers, smiling beatifically in a softly lit promo shot. Steve in particular looks downright angelic.

“We do it the hard way. Everyone has a weakness, Bucky Barnes—even a superhero. We find a way to take them out. One by one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So we've been briefed, and we can move on to the mission. Hope you like it, please let me know your thoughts! :D
> 
> Personal pet peeve: any dumbass 1L could tell you that the Sokovia Accords are hilaaaariously prima facie unconstitutional/unenforceable/unwieldy, for like 80 different reasons. It's why I don't think Civil War is as grey-area as a lot of people think - Tony is essentially arguing that this legislation (that he's pushing because of his own guilt complex) should be used to imprison or impress into service (for any nation-state signatory!) any person to whom (someone?) decides it is (inconsistently) applied, without any due process. Okay, Tony. Many thanks to the Legal Geeks for compiling at lot of this all together: 
> 
> http://thelegalgeeks.com/2016/05/10/why-the-sokovia-accords-are-unconstitutional/


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hook. Bait.

The coffee shop James had suggested is called _Northern Lights_ , and it’s at least forty minutes away. Automatically, Steve wonders if it’s near where James lives. He sort of hopes so—it makes it easier to pretend, for a moment, that James is just a friend. Someone who’s invited _Steve Rogers_ to hang out at his favorite local coffee shop; just because he likes his company, and not because Captain America has offered him a new limb. 

As far as pipedreams go, it’s sort of sad and pathetic. But then, this is probably the first time in years that Steve’s been on any sort of planned outing that doesn’t technically qualify as official Avengers business. It’s not that he’d had much of a life to begin with—the last person he’d asked on a date had turned out to be an undercover SHIELD agent, after all—but at least before the Accords he’d had the option.

Steve takes a breath, and tugs his baseball cap low over his aviators. He’d considered using a nano-mask, but he’s got an odd feeling that James would be put off by it. He finds that he’s uncharacteristically nervous for this meeting. He’d met with Helen and Pepper about the project, and he’d been surprised to realize how excited he’d felt about the prospect of _making a difference_. More than that, though—he can’t help but harbor some small, secretive hope that perhaps this could be a turning point in what has been, for the past three years, a progressive slog into apathy.

Maybe he starts to find peace and purpose with his role as Captain America. Maybe he actually makes a friend out of this, like a real live person.

 _I wondered if I could take you up on that talk,_ James had said. _And maybe you could tell me more about that prosthetic program?_

Although Steve’s clearly more desperate than he’d realized for some genuine human interaction, he knows that the prosthetic program is what had really prompted James’s call, not Steve’s offer of a listening ear. James’s discomfort with Steve’s celebrity had been palpably obvious from the minute he’d learned Steve’s identity, and he’d practically fled Avengers Tower. The Avengers do have their critics (according to Christina, anyway); it’s possible that James is an anti-Accorder, although Steve can’t really see him being part of such a radical fringe.

Steve takes a taxi to the coffee shop just to be on the safe side, praying that the driver is oblivious or discreet—he doesn’t need any paparazzi intruding on this meeting. He scrubs his face as the car jolts through traffic, trying to settle his nerves. 

He hasn’t told anyone at SI about this particular field trip. It’s risky—since his come-to-Jesus meeting in the boardroom, he’s painfully conscious that his _extracurricular activities_ , infrequent as they are, are being watched. It’s possible that this clandestine approach might backfire—all he needs is for a SHIELD agent to tail him, or for SI to stick a tracker in him, or something—but the boardroom meeting had left him feeling oddly protective of James. Security still hasn’t managed to find a likely match for _James Barnes_ in the city, leaving Maria baffled and Christina apoplectic. Steve’s curious himself; SI isn’t perfect and ‘James Barnes’ isn’t exactly an uncommon name, but if he’s living in the city they should be able to come up with something. He tries and fails not to take it as a good sign. 

The final straw had been when Sam had casually brought the incident up during a training session. Even though he’s sure that Sam’s motives are ultimately decent, Steve’s blood had gone cold when Sam had nonchalantly asked if Steve knew where, exactly, James Barnes was from.

Steve knows that in reality, there’s nothing to be afraid of. If James agrees to the prosthetics program the mystery will be over—anyone entering this program will undoubtedly be subject to the most rigorous background checks that Maria can conjure. He’ll be a known entity, and Steve will only have to worry about keeping him away from Christina and the SI PR machine. Still, on the off chance that James backs out now, Steve wants to spare James’ privacy.

_Is_ this guy _the reason you suddenly wanted to headline the prosthetics pilot? You got a little crush, Cap?_

And there’s the fact that Tony’s been increasingly edgy lately—simultaneously more paranoid and less careful about what he uses as ammunition. Steve’s not concerned for James’s safety, but he wouldn’t put it past Tony to leak the real identity of Steve’s supposed damsel in distress. 

Just to make a point.

 _Northern Lights_ is a surprisingly big for a hole in the wall—quiet, dark, and sparsely populated. Steve scans the room and feels a slight jolt when he sees James staring directly back at him from the far corner. James’ eyes look pale in the dark, and expression is unreadable, but when Steve smiles tentatively, James gives him a cautious smile back, the sharp angles of his face softening. 

Steve removes the aviators as he makes his way to James, feeling self-conscious. James speaks as soon as he sits down. 

“Thanks for meeting me here,” James says, his quiet voice sounding almost anxious. “I know this is kind of out of your way, but—”

“No, this is great,” Steve interrupts, his voice a little too loud. He winces internally and then says, “Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” James says hastily. He starts to lift his coffee cup and then starts, as though just realizing he’s got it. “Uh, I wasn’t sure when you would get here—”

“Yeah, of course! I’ll just—I can go grab something.”

Steve backs his chair out with more force than necessary and makes his way over to the counter, mentally berating himself. He’s interviewed on national television at least once a month. Just two weeks ago, he set the record for Make-A-Wish hospital visits. Hell, he’s been professionally trained on how to talk to people—why is he suddenly such a mess?

While the barista pours him a black coffee, he comes to the grim realization that he may have built this meeting up far too much. 

When Steve sits back down, James offers a tight smile but doesn’t say anything. He picks at his coffee cup.

Steve shifts in his seat. “This place is nice. Do you live around here?”

James shrugs. “Not too far.”

“Oh.”

Palpable awkwardness settles between them again. James seems far less guarded today than he had in the Tower, but not quite as warm as he’d sounded on the phone. Steve can’t seem to get a read on him. 

Finally, James breaks the silence. “For a celebrity, you’re kind of bad at this, you know?”

Steve barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. At first he doesn’t know what to think—it’s not as though James has room to criticize—but then he sees the corner of James’s mouth tugging up, and he gives in to impulse.

He’s aware that his laugh is a bit too loud and long, but he can’t help it—he hasn’t felt much like laughing in awhile. 

James’s smirk widens. He looks a little pleased. The tight reserve in his posture eases slightly. “No offense or anything. You just seem so smooth on TV.”

“It’s the teleprompter,” Steve tells him, grinning back. “Can’t function without it.”

“Didn’t think they had those in the forties.”

“That’s why I had all the footage from back then destroyed. Terrible for my image.”

James snorts, his eyes narrowing playfully. “If only. I was in DC the month they unveiled your new Smithsonian exhibit, your shit was fucking everywhere.”

“Not the parts that make me look bad,” Steve counters, “I had those taken out.”

James raises a brow. “Yeah? You left in the pictures of you wearing tights, how bad was the stuff that you nixed?”

“War crimes,” Steve tells him, “Knifing and pillaging. The _tights_ didn’t make me look half bad.” He feels almost rebellious; like a child daring to say a dirty word. His public image has been so sanitized and scrubbed clean that he sometimes thinks the Howling Commandos—witness to his game contributions to the requisite dark banter and gallows humor that had characterized their campaign—wouldn’t recognize him. 

He’s allowed to joke about the past, of course, but in a gentle, pre-approved way—ha ha, when I woke up, I didn’t know how to work a microwave, Jimmy Kimmel. There’s even a running gag about how he’s too pure to swear, or something—him, the guy who’d been subjected to every possible rendition of _There Once Was a Girl from Nantucket_ , Dum-Dum’s favorite way to kill boredom. 

Captain America shouldn’t be joking about war crimes—Jesus, _especially_ to a veteran—but James throws back his head and laughs.

Steve watches him, feeling relieved and sort of proud. When he’d last met James, he’d seemed so rigid—brittle, almost. It’s nice to see him laugh.

“Are you allowed to joke about that kind of thing?” James asks, still grinning. “I wouldn’t think that fits your _image_.”

“No,” Steve tells him honestly, his own smile fading a bit. “I’m actually not.”

James gives him a considering look. 

Steve realizes that James rarely fixes his gaze for long—his eyes are always darting methodically around the room, following each noise and shadow. The full intensity of his gaze is striking.

“Kind of have to keep up appearances you know?” Steve continues, loathe to let silence set in again. “I mean, obviously you understood that was just a joke but—you know, make that joke to the wrong interviewer and all of a sudden Twitter’s got you killing POWs, or something.”

He looks down at the table, but he can’t seem to stop talking. “They play up my image a lot—goes without saying that I’m not a saint or anything, but now that’s what people tend to expect.” 

Feeling his cheeks heat up, he glances up at James. He’s the one who’d offered James a listening ear, and yet here he is—dumping all of his personal issues. 

James doesn’t look uncomfortable, though. “That sucks,” he says bluntly, and Steve huffs a wry laugh. 

“You have no idea.”

James tilts his head in subtle invitation, a thick strand of dark hair falling across his cheekbone. For a wild second, Steve almost blurts out everything, right then and there: how fucking tired he is of all of it—the press conferences and the movie cameos, the red carpets and the fake smiles and the shiny, manufactured persona that’s feels like it’s slowly consuming his soul. 

The unmistakable crunch of breaking glass and the barista’s musical _god_ -fucking- _damnit!_ interrupts his thoughts. 

James’s mouth twists in amusement, and the moment is broken. 

Steve half-smiles and looks away. He doesn’t want to scare James off by dumping all of his personal issues onto him, anyway.

“Well, anyway,” is all he says, and he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out the informative schematic that Helen had had made up for him. “We aren’t here to talk about me. I got this for you—thought this might help you visualize what it’ll look like.”

He hands James the page and watches him as he opens and scans it carefully. Steve takes the opportunity to study him. Smile gone, James is enigmatic once again—his carriage tenses as he focuses. He’s dressed much like Steve—ball cap without a logo, non-descript jacket and hoodie. Today, he’s wearing his prosthetic, the first time Steve’s seen him with it on. 

“You didn’t bring your dog,” Steve says aloud, the thought suddenly occurring. James looks up from the schematic, surprised. 

“Was I supposed to?”

There’s an odd note in his voice that Steve can’t quite place. 

“Well, no, not if—I just thought you might.”

James stares at him for a beat before relaxing back into his earlier, comfortable posture. “He’s got a bad leg,” James says finally, his voice easy again. “I didn’t want to make him walk so far.”

Steve remembers the limp. He hadn’t realized it had been permanent. “I’m sorry.”

James shrugs easily. “We’re working on it.” 

He lays the page flat on the table, displaying the graphic of the intended prosthetic. He taps the picture. “So, what do I have to do?”

Steve blinks. “You mean—you don’t have any questions?”

“About this arm? No. This is—it’s amazing, Steve. But…about what I have to do to get it?”

James draws his lip between his teeth. “I know you said on the phone that I’ll have to do a background check, and I get it, that’s fine, but—you also said we could do this without any publicity.”

It’s clearly a question. 

Steve looks at James. James is clearly trying to maintain his inscrutable mask, but now Steve sees the cracks in the veneer—the painfully obvious apprehension that James is clearly trying to hide. James lifts his chin almost imperceptibly, fragile dignity in every line of his body.

Steve’s heart breaks a little. He squares his shoulders.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “We can. I won’t lie to you, James—this is experimental, in every sense of the word. Some of it could be—will likely be—painful.”

James’s face doesn’t change at this revelation. His eyes are fixed on Steve’s with an almost painful intensity.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought it wouldn’t work, but to some extent, you’re a guinea pig, here. I can’t promise you there won’t be bumps along the way. But that also works to your favor—I’ve made it very clear that your anonymity is a non-negotiable condition of your participation.”

James lets out a slow breath. His eyes search Steve’s face.

Steve holds his breath.

“Then I’m in,” James says simply.

Steve almost collapses in relief, unable to stop the wide grin spreading over his face. “That—that’s _great_. This is going to be really great, James.”

They spend the next half-hour talking logistics, and then trading increasingly ridiculous ideas about James’s cover story, before Steve can’t hold it back any longer.

“James—I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. But when I first told you about the program…well, I don’t think you could have gotten out of there faster.”

He tries to soften his words with a humorous tone, but he sees a look of chagrin flash over James’s face. 

Steve tries to hold James’s gaze, and does his best to project a non-judgmental demeanor. James has every right to keep his motivations private, but this is something that Steve has been curious about ever since James called him. 

“Understandable, but I have to know – what made you change your mind?”

“You mean, besides needing a new limb?” James smiles faintly and casts his eyes down. 

When he looks up again, he meets Steve’s gaze head-on. “I guess I just—didn’t want to be a victim, anymore. After the accident I felt—helpless. About a lot of things. That day in the park…I still don’t know what the fuck happened there, but I was fucking defenseless. Only thing I could have done to save my own skin would have been to hightail it out of there. But now,” he smiles at Steve, the corners of his lips curling sweetly, “I can do something about it. You—this project—you’re giving me the chance to fight back.”

Steve knows the gritty effort it takes to haul yourself back up after being knocked down, and he hears that same determination in James’s voice. The cybernetic arm is not quite a super-serum, but Steve likes the thought that he’ll be passing on his own good fortune to another person who’s taken more than their share of licks from life. 

“Do you mind if I ask what happened? I mean—you don’t have to tell me, of course.”

“No, it’s fine.” James shrugs. “You deserve to know. Convoy was heading back to base. Humvee hit an IED and rolled. I was—I was lucky.” 

So some—if not all—of his team hadn’t made it out, then. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells James, inadvertently picturing the Howling Commandos. For a moment, he wishes he'd listened more to Sam; that he had something better to say now.

“It’s fine,” James says again, his eyes locked on Steve’s. “Just gotta keep moving forward, right?”

They talk for another half-hour or so—nothing important or personal, just inane banter that Steve lets wash over him like a balm. James, as it turns out, is a Mets fan, and Steve completely abandons his plan to act like a normal human being in favor of treating James to a long lecture about the Brooklyn Dodgers.

By the time they’re standing to leave, they’ve got a tentative date picked out for James to come to the Tower, and James is expecting a call from Stark Industries Client Management to finalize it. Steve automatically holds the door for James as they exit, to which James cheerfully rolls his eyes. 

He hesitates for a moment outside of doorway. “Steve,” he says, sounding almost shy, “I—really appreciate this.”

Looking unsure, he sticks out his hand. Steve has to forcibly stop himself from smiling like an idiot. He’s pretty sure James is talking about more than just the prosthetics program.

“We could do it again, if you wanted?” he offers, taking the proffered hand and trying not to sound too eager. “If you’re not too bummed by how lame I turned out to be.”

James smiles, and ignores the low-hanging fruit. He grips Steve’s hand a beat too long. “I’d like that.”

Steve watches James walk away until he rounds the corner. He tries and fails to suppress the warm, almost unfamiliar sensation that floods his chest. It feels, he thinks, like hope.

He takes the subway home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but wanted to get it out there. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly sorry for the long delay here! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Violence, darkness, cynicism, etc. Any international politics included here are solely used to serve the story.

Bucky stops for takeout on his way home. He takes his time about it, exchanging a few pleasantries with the young woman who hands him his food. Afterwards, he practically saunters down the street, lightly swinging the takeout bag and tilting his face towards the cloudless sky. For all intents and purposes, he’s the very picture of a man whose prospects are finally looking up.

Just in case anyone’s watching.

He holds the door to his apartment building for a young couple, smiling politely. He maintains his jaunty little spring in his step all the way up to the fourth floor, and he only allows himself to sag with relief and exhaustion once the door to his apartment has been shut and locked. 

“Scott will check your apartment for bugs while you’re out,” Clint had told him. He’d given Bucky a supposedly untraceable burner phone that Hank had re-engineered specifically so that Bucky can keep in touch with the team whilst appearing to maintain his usual routine. Bucky knows that he should be calling Clint for a debrief now, but instead he spends a few quick minutes petting Charlie and letting him pant happily in his face before straightening up and making a beeline for the fridge.

He’s walked a grand total of twenty blocks at most the entire day, but when he finally collapses onto the couch, cradling a six-pack, he feels as though his limbs are made of lead. Usually, he feels sort of keyed up after a mission—excess adrenaline, he’d always thought; all that excitement finally bleeding through his forcibly calm exterior—but this one has left him feeling only bone-deep exhaustion. 

This kind of mission is completely new to him—the beats and rhythms are all askew from what he’s used to. Bucky knows the basics of tradecraft and espionage, of course, but the most pertinent thing he’d learned at OTC had been intelligence assessment, usually applied to extremist elements or terrorist organizations. He’d never really been expected to actually recruit for intelligence purposes. 

He’d certainly never had to pretend to _like_ someone before.

Despite the grim satisfaction he feels with the general plan of taking down the Avengers – Christ, that sounds so _stupid_ in his head – actually weaseling his way into Steve Rogers’ confidence leaves him with an oily, uneasy feeling in his gut. Before, all of Bucky’s missions had been carried out from a safe, detached distance, the scope of his gun a firm barrier between himself and his target. Now, he feels exposed and almost raw—what he’s doing scrapes at his defenses in a way that leaves Bucky concerned about his ability to pull this off. 

Successful snipers are not just talented with hand-eye coordination; they must also walk a fine psychological line between two mental tendencies colloquially known as “Munich Massacre” and “Texas Tower” syndrome, respectively.

During the Munich Olympic Massacre (or so Bucky was told, in training), the German snipers waiting for their orders spent so long staring at their intended targets from behind the lenses of their scopes that when the crucial moment came, they found themselves unable to fire; their targets had become altogether too human. Admirable, maybe, this impulse to mercy, but ultimately devastating to the hostages the targets then brutally slaughtered.

In 1966, Charles Whitman climbed to the top of a bell tower at the University of Texas and began to fire down at the people below. Once he pulled the trigger, he’d found himself unable to stop, and he killed sixteen people before Austin police shot him dead.

Such impulse, too, is altogether human.

Effective snipers like Bucky who thread the narrow gap between these two tendencies must exert, above all, an unshakeable, dispassionate, and often cold self-control. The act of killing, in itself, must evoke no emotion in him. Unlike his mean shot, detachment wasn’t intuitive to Bucky, and had had to be carefully honed over many long years. 

It had helped that he’d believed in what he was doing—his work was chiefly counter-terrorism; fighting certifiably bad guys. That, and the complete lack of spotlight (and decent wages) had scrubbed away any mercenary vestige he might otherwise have felt. Still, the easiest missions, for him, had been night-raids and hostage rescues – everyone’s visage obscured by flash-bangs, the action over before Bucky could even begin to get a look at his targets’ faces. 

Bucky and a few of his team had once waited patiently for over three hours for all of their targets to come into simultaneous range. They’d needed immediate, concurrent headshots to pull off the hostage rescue they’d been deployed for, since insurgents tend to keep their weapons trained on or near the hostages; only a direct hit to the central nervous system would preclude an involuntary squeeze of a trigger finger.

They all knew the danger, and that they had to wait until they’d heard a verbal confirmation from each shooter to confirm that they had a clean shot in their sights: _Alpha has. Bravo has. Charlie has._

Mack and Bucky had been in a blind together; Murphy had been somewhere out of sight, on the far side of the compound. Mack’s target had been particularly nervous, and his head had only popped into the plaster window for seconds at a time. Bucky’s, target, in contrast, had marched around in the open, deliberately kicking up dust under his feet. The barrel of Bucky’s scope had swung gently to follow his movements, crosshairs centered on the young man as he’d yawned and paced and knelt to greet an approaching stray cat. Bucky had studied the target’s face as he carefully petted the tiny orange head, and had placed him at no older than eighteen.

Mack’s soft voice had piped into his earpiece, then. “Alpha has.” 

“Bravo has.”

“Charlie has.”

A second later, Bucky had unhesitatingly pulled the trigger. He’d certainly taken no pleasure in it, and it’s one of the few missions that he sometimes still thinks about—all the same, he hadn’t lost a moment of sleep over it. 

This, though—this is different. Bucky has never had to smile in the face of his enemy before. He is unpracticed at such clandestine arts, and the effort it takes to charm and calculate all at once is startlingly heavy. He has been called upon for subterfuge in the past, sure, but this sort of thing is more the province of a CIA operative; someone comfortable leveraging weak-spots and feigning intimacy. As it turns out, duplicity sits ill with Bucky. Although this revelation makes the prospect of revenge less pleasurable than it once had seemed in his miserable daydreams, he’s somewhat relieved to have found an ember of humanity buried beneath the rising tide of his bitterness. For all that he hates the Avengers, he does not relish the prospect of stabbing Steve—Captain America—in the back.

Bucky would have preferred to simply shoot him, although—worryingly—the notion gives him less pleasure, now.

Bucky cracks open his first beer and absently strokes Charlie’s head as the mutt settles on the couch beside him. 

The worst part about this _mission_ is that Steve Rogers doesn’t really seem to be a bad guy. Clint had briefed him, of course—an odd mix of professional profiling, Captain America trivia, and the kind of minutiae about quirks and preferences that one inevitably picks up from a friend. Even though the Steve Clint had described had sounded like a decent guy, Bucky had mentally added the obvious addendum: Clint had known Steve before his three-year stint as a celebrity sell-out. A lot has changed since Clint last talked to him.

Bucky really hadn’t expected to find Steve so _likable_.

Steve’s almost shockingly normal, in fact—the kind of guy Bucky might have gone for a beer with, back when he was a real person. Either Steve is the world’s best actor or he really doesn’t buy in to all of the Captain America hype—on the contrary, he’d been almost awkwardly quick to self-deprecate. He’s got a dry sense of humor that Bucky hadn’t been expecting, and for a guy who gives pompous speeches for a living, he’s a remarkably good listener.

Most of all, though, Steve seems desperately lonely. More than once during their conversation, Bucky had recognized himself in Steve, albeit through a glass darkly—Bucky is physically isolated while Steve is surrounded by sycophants, but they are both fundamentally _alone_.

Bucky had taken advantage of that loneliness and worked him like a cheap hooker. He’d acted purposefully guarded at first, just to allow Steve the chance to coax him out of his shell, and then he’d laid the wounded veneer on thick. Even if Clint hadn’t advised him on this approach, Steve’s weak spots are painfully obvious even to a novice like Bucky—a flash of vulnerability and a determined little lift of his broken toy soldier chin, and he’d had Steve eating out of the palm of his hand. Steve is clearly desperate for someone to talk to, and, as Bucky suspected, simply nudging him open a bit had let loose the floodgates.

What he hadn’t anticipated was how much he’d enjoyed talking to Steve, too. Alarmingly, once or twice he’d caught himself on the verge of forgetting the larger mission. His chief worry had been that he’d come off socially awkward, after months of living as a veritable hermit; instead, it had been almost painfully easy to slip back into familiar serviceman’s banter.

He could almost have been talking to one of his team again.

The traitorous thought is almost enough to pull him out of his conflicted deliberations. 

Clint had asked him, of course, about what had happened. He’s curious, yes, but mostly Clint wants to know what the Avengers had been doing there in the first place, to get a foothold into what other shadowy designs might be hiding beneath the shiny superhero veneer. The trouble is that Bucky himself has no idea.

At first, he’d deliberately avoided thinking about it. Sometime after the hospitals and physical therapy—after the shock and rawness had faded somewhat and bitter resentment had set in—he’d tried to replay the details of the mission over and over, in an attempt to force some sense into what still seemed the most irrational slaughter.

They weren’t supposed to be in Syria in the first place. That had been the first wrinkle. Bowing to pressure from his base, Ellis had made a lot of blustery midterm noise about pulling out of what was rapidly becoming a proxy-war between Russia and the United States, in the process inadvertently allowing the former to all but cement a foothold in the region. Bucky’s team received their orders almost a year after the last American convoy had supposedly rolled back over the border. 

Officially, the mission was labeled an “SSE”—a sensitive site exploration, a raid that was supposed to capture electronics and documents revealing Russian assistance in strategic chemical attacks. Unofficially, Bucky’s team was also under orders to kill or capture two high-value targets, if found onsite. Once they’d gotten out with the proof the CIA so desperately they’d find, Bucky’s team was to blow the far-flung base to bits, something they’d known from experience that some rebel group would undoubtedly take credit for. Nobody ever need know they were there.

Ideally, it would have been the knock-out blow in an escalating PR war raging between the United States and an increasingly agitated Russia, which had recently claimed “irrefutable proof” that the United States and the United Kingdom had jointly staged a reported chemical attack in Syria to frame Russia.

Everything had gone right, at first. There had been no hiccups on their way to Syria, and they’d been inside the compound and already engaged when the cool green inside Bucky’s night-vision goggles had exploded into searing white light. 

He remembers wrenching the goggles from his head, his eyes still squeezed shut, and dropping instinctively, unable to hear anything in his earpiece over a deafening cacophony of hoarse shouts and frantic gunfire echoing in the compound. Unable to get his bearings, he’d chanced a glance upward, his still-burning eyes nearly squeezed shut, and had gotten the confused impression of people hovering above him in the air, barely glimpsed between the sporadic flashes of gunfire and streams of sickly red light. A second later, he’d heard a strangely familiar mechanical whine and then the dusty thunderclap of a small explosion. 

Bucky was suddenly drenched in warmth, and he’d immediately thought _I’m hit_ , knowing that the lack of pain was only a momentary reprieve. Later, he’d realized that he hadn’t been hit—that it had been someone else’s blood, not his, not then—but at the time he’d suddenly heard Mack shouting in his earpiece to head for the main gate of the compound and he’d stumbled to his feet and plunged blindly back into the chaos, like a drowning swimmer unable to find up.

The rest of his memories are a tangled nightmare of sounds and images, each more horrible than the last. He remembers a body flying through the air to strike the wall in front of him with a sickening crack, and he remembers how he’d tried to go back for Murphy’s body which had been neatly bisected in a flash of red light, and how Sawyer had wrenched him back, shoving him toward the main gate and how he’d been looking right at Sawyer when he’d seen a bullet clearly pierce straight through Sawyer’s Adam’s apple. 

He’ll likely never know how Mack and Teddy and the rest of the team had met their end, although he remembers a body exploding into pink mist in front of his face. He still has no memory of losing his arm, and he suspects that he’d escaped the compound out of sheer dumb luck—he remembers half-running, half-stumbling to the rendezvous point before the roar of an explosion behind him had knocked him off of his feet and out of consciousness. He has a confused impression of the _whup-whup-whup_ of the stealth Blackhawk’s rotors spinning far too close to his head, but otherwise he remembers nothing more until the moment he’d awakened in a field hospital in Afghanistan.

“Friendly fire,” his commander had told him then, refusing to meet his eyes, and later Lieutenant Anders had told him the same thing. _A horrible coincidence. Lack of coordination between intelligence forces. The CIA had played things too close to the chest._ Friendly fire does happen, but this wasn’t a case of a Rangers night-op gone bad or a misidentified vehicle being fired upon. There are no _mix-ups_ on missions this highly classified and painstakingly planned out. _Nobody_ outside of a tight Delta strike-force support team and a select few CIA operatives helming the operation should have even known about the compound.

“Were they successful?” he’d asked dully, not caring, and Anders had looked at him, uncomprehending. “The SSE. The documents.”

Anders’s lips had tightened, and he’d looked away. “No. Intel was wrong.”

Bucky tells himself that he’d never had much of a choice. The operation itself had been so highly-classified that he’d been incredibly confused by the first NDA they’d slapped in front of him, “An Agreement between James Barnes and the United States” helpfully headlining the top. He hadn’t been given a lawyer of his own—that should have been a giant red flag, but he hadn’t thought to ask, in the state he’d been in. He’d skimmed it briefly anyway. It looked like a standard form—his name had been written in in blue ink—and one full paragraph looked like a long recitation of US Code citations. The phrase “Military Whistleblower Protection Act” had caught his eye. So did “The Subversive Activities Act of 1950”.

The lawyer who’d presented him with the NDA and Settlement Agreement from Stark Industries had come straight from central casting, his hair slicked back American Psycho-style. Bucky had immediately clocked him as a civilian, since JAG are always in military dress. Bucky had stared at the man’s well-manicured hands as he’d tapped a pen against the agreements, laying out the terms for Bucky in an oddly pleasant—if rehearsed—voice. Bucky had been so numb that only belatedly had he put together the reason Stark Industries was offering him blood money.

Even at the time, though, he’d known something was very wrong. No matter who is involved, you don’t get settlement pay for not talking, or even for getting injured on the job—Delta operators don’t talk _at all_ , that’s just the way it goes. No matter what happens on a mission, you keep your mouth shut or you get court-martialed and thrown in a hole, no two ways about it. At the time, he’d had a vague idea that the mission might have been above JAGs pay-grade, anyway, and it was clear from the tight-lipped, ultra-high-ranking NCO watching Bucky and the lawyer in silence that Bucky didn’t have much of a choice, here.

He’d been exhausted and in pain. He’d just lost, in quick succession: the only family he’d had left, his arm, and his career. 

He’d signed.

Back in the United States, with nothing to look forward to but sporadic medical and therapy appointments, he’d spent a great many sleepless nights trying to puzzle it out. Although he knows better now, at the time he’d thought the Avengers were mostly supposed to be something like a UN task-force, needing approval to be sent out. He’d gotten no answers from anyone at Delta, and even the one CIA contact he’d trusted enough to reach out to had been close-lipped. All he’d really wanted to know was _why_. Seven good men dead for no reason at all. Seven empty coffins sent home to their families. Bucky the last man standing, for no good reason that he could see.

No matter how he looks at it now, in hindsight of everything Clint has told him, he still can’t see any reason for the Avengers being there in the first place. The details of that night hadn’t revealed any clues. He gathers that they’d had come in through the roof of the compound—the light that had temporarily blinded him could have been a flash-bang, or Iron Man’s repulsors, or their infamous Quinjet, for all he knows. It could have been just the Avengers, or maybe they’d been accompanied by a SHIELD STRIKE force—Bucky’d assumed that most of the gunfire had come from the Syrian troops now fully alerted to the fact that they were under attack, but he can’t really be sure.

Bucky’s team would all have headed back through the main compound and the Blackhawk drop-site the second the mission had gone wrong, but besides Murphy and Sawyer he’s got no way of knowing what had actually happened to each of them. Even if they’d managed to escape the Avengers and the Syrian gunfire that by that point had been spraying wildly around the compound, the Avengers had completely leveled the compound before disengaging, apparently unaware that seven American Special Forces members were still inside. That explosion was likely the one that had knocked Bucky out, and possibly taken his arm. Afterwards, Bucky had been told that there hadn’t been anything left of the bodies to identify. 

He also has no idea when the Blackhawks came back for them—him—but his team had been wired up, audio and visual feeding right back to command, and they would have been on their way the second everything went to hell.

He doesn’t really know if Steve had actually been there. He’d seen Iron Man and the Witch with his own eyes, and he sometimes thinks he might have seen the Vision at one point, floating high above the carnage and gunfire, but not Captain America. He hadn’t seen the Falcon or Spiderman, either. It’s possible, he thinks, that Steve hadn’t been there at all—as far as he can tell, they rarely all deploy at the same time—but Steve must at least _know_ about it. For all of his professed dislike of the spotlight, he’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to understand the increasingly sinister machinations at play, and he still chooses to suit up as an Avenger.

Most importantly, he’d known what was in the Accords, and— _just like you,_ a nasty little voice in Bucky’s head whispers—Steve had still signed. 

Bucky thinks back to that day they’d met at the park. 

_It’s just—you know. The compromises you have to make. For your job. You ever think that maybe it’s not worth it?_

Bucky wonders now if Steve hadn’t been talking about something specific. Another shattered family, another empty coffin. He can only imagine what _compromises_ Steve has made as an Avenger.

He clenches his fist around beer number six. When he’d first been discharged, he’d spent a good week in a drunken haze, trying to drown out the bloody images that had crowded his mind. It’s a miracle that he hadn’t slipped straight into alcoholism, and it should worry him, he thinks, that it seems to take more and more to get him drunk, these days. He’s killed a six-pack in record time, and yet his mind is clear and his hands perfectly steady as he raises the empty bottle in a parody of his sniper’s rifle and mimes lining up a shot, picturing crosshairs right between Captain America’s pretty blue eyes.

_Alpha has._

* * *

Steve feels unaccountably nervous as he leaves Helen’s lab. He’d poked his head in to ask whether it would be okay if he hung around to watch the proceedings. She’d looked surprised—“ _it’s not going to be anything interesting, just preliminary labs and baseline assessments today_ ”—but had finally shrugged and told him that as long as James was comfortable with him being there that she was, too.

The day after they’d met for coffee, Steve had unexpectedly received a text from James. It was just a short, snarky comment about the disastrous Dodgers game James was apparently watching—but Steve had snatched at it like a lifeline. Since then, they’ve exchanged two or three texts a day—nothing earth-shattering, but enough to keep the tentative rapport they’d established going. 

He’s due today for his first visit to Avengers Tower, and Steve can’t help but think that this is where it all goes wrong. He’d received assurances from Pepper that James’s role will be that of a test subject only—if the pilot is successful, they can do a press release and then make a big show of picking some disadvantaged kid with a missing limb to be their first “official” candidate. Although he’d wrested the closest thing from a promise from Christina that he thinks he can get, she’d argued against James’s anonymity so vociferously (“ _a war veteran, Steve, this is_ absolutely perfect _for your brand_ ”) that he wouldn’t put it past her to orchestrate some surprise media set-up.

Almost more concerning is the fact that as the arm’s engineer, Tony’s presence is imperative to this project. Initially, James will be meeting just with Helen, but eventually both she and Tony will be working with him, probably for weeks on end. True, it’s entirely possible—probable even—that Tony will simply behave perfectly on-brand, given the potential reputational risk to Stark Industries, but there’s always the possibility of him using James to take a cheap shot at Steve.

“Cap! Er, I mean—Steve!” 

Steve swallows a sigh and turns to see Peter hurrying down the hall towards him, grinning from ear to ear.

James is due at the Tower in less than an hour. Although he knows that James will have to interact with Tony eventually, Steve had hoped to get him in and out with as little fanfare as possible. He’s been mostly hoping to avoid Christina—or Nat—but now he feels a sinking feeling in his chest as he realizes that Peter’s presence may not be a coincidence.

For obvious reasons, Peter is the only Avenger that doesn’t actually live at the Tower. Apparently, Stark had found him in a cramped apartment in Queens, but now he and his aunt split their time between a million-dollar home in Belle Harbor and an upscale high-rise closer to Peter’s high-school. 

Peter’s a decent kid, but Steve feels implacably uncomfortable interacting with him these days. This is partially due to the fact that Peter – a consummate nervous talker – _still_ clearly idolizes him even after realizing what a sad-sack Steve really is (although Steve can’t help but notice that Peter now calls him _Cap_ or _Steve_ , while Tony is still _Mr. Stark_ ).

More than that, though, Steve increasingly feels that Peter is the walking embodiment of everything wrong with the Avengers. At first, Steve thought that it was his age; Peter’s seventeen, but to Steve, he looks about twelve. He’s inhumanly strong, sure—stronger than Steve—but what Tony doesn’t seem to get is that it doesn’t just take physical strength to fight a war. Thankfully, Peter seems to be mostly relegated to the “family friendly” version of Avenging, at least for now, but when Steve looks at him he can’t help but see the bright-eyed boys that he’d shipped off with, once upon a time—irreversibly hardened, all, in the end; some indefinable light irrevocably snuffed out.

“Jesus, Rogers, nobody’s storming the beaches, here,” is what Tony had told him, and Steve had supposed that that was true, but the Battle of New York had been bad enough for _him_ , and he’d magnanimously avoided pointing out that Tony himself had suffered PTSD for months afterwards.

Now, though, he realizes that Peter makes him uncomfortable for entirely different reasons. He’s basically a good kid—his heart’s in the right place, and he seems to genuinely enjoy his regularly scheduled heroics—but he’d have to be the living saint they make Steve out to be not to succumb to the endorsements, the celebrity treatment, and the obscene amounts of money he stands to make. The PR team shields him from starlets and tabloids as best they can but in reality, Peter’s a teenaged millionaire—idolized the world over—and Steve can’t help but think that just lately, it’s gone to his head. 

Peter’s kept somewhat grounded by the fact that the public doesn’t know his real identity, and that most people at SI treat him like the intern they think he is. When he’s in his Spiderman costume, though, he’s starting to exhibit a sort of cast-off dismissiveness towards the staff that forcibly reminds Steve of Tony. A few months ago, they’d done cover-shots for Entertainment Weekly (something Steve is still bemused by; he sincerely hopes that there are no movies in his future). Steve had been paired up with Sam, and while they’d waited for their turn he’d idly watched the photographer shooting Peter and Vision. Vision had politely allowed himself to be directed, but Peter had seemed uncharacteristically impatient with the entire process. At one point, he’d told the photographer that he’d just covered GQ the month prior, and that he was well aware of how to pose, thanks, and could they just finish this up?

Sam had merely rolled his eyes, but Steve had been shocked. 

“He’s a teenager, what d’you expect?” Sam had replied to Steve’s pointed expression of incredulity. “I hate to think what I would’ve been like at that age if I were a multi-millionaire, you know? He’s fine, Steve.”

Sam had razzed him a little bit on the drive home about acting like a diva, and Peter had seemed a little embarrassed but not nearly as contrite as Steve would have expected. True, most of the time he’s basically the friendly neighborhood Spiderman they market him as, but lately the sarcasm he usually reserves for criminals has been bleeding through more and more, and even Wanda had mentioned that Peter had been “a little shit” to the catering staff backstage at the VMAs. Steve wonders whether he should exercise the nuclear option and mention Peter’s behavior to Christina. 

“Mr. Stark said I could help out with the prosthetics program,” Peter says when he catches up to Steve. He looks as though he’s limping slightly. “It’s going to be amazing. I mean, did you look at the schematics? That neuro-mechanical interfacing alone—!”

Steve inwardly despairs—the fewer Avengers he can expose James to, the better—but outwardly, he smiles brightly. “That’s great, Peter,” he says, “Happy to have you on board.” Trying to change the subject as fast as possible, he adds: “Hey, did you do something to your leg? Thought I saw a bit of a limp, there.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. I mean, I’m fine, but—I was patrolling last night, and this guy was _really strong_. Like, it was _crazy_. You should _see_ this bruise.”

“Yeah? Who was he?”

Peter shrugs, clearly unconcerned. “Just some random mugger, I guess. Hobo guy. I mean, I was able to get him just fine, but I don’t think anyone’s hit me that hard since, like—you.”

Steve frowns and opens his mouth, but a familiar voice interrupts him.

“Corrupting my ward, I see?”

Avengers Tower is a big place, and despite the fact that Avengers share a few floors for resident purposes, he doesn’t usually run into his teammates in the hallway. Tony, in particular, is usually pretty easy to avoid, especially as he generally shuns the gym. 

“Tony,” Steve greets him, silently despairing. 

“ _Steve_ ,” Tony mimics, a slightly sardonic expression on his face. He turns abruptly to Peter. “Hey kid, you ready to make medical history?”

Peter beams, and Steve can’t help but notice that Tony’s demeanor softens just the slightest amount when he addresses Peter.

“You bet, Mr. Stark!”

And Steve can’t help but notice that Peter’s burgeoning teenaged sarcasm is always mysteriously absent when he interacts with Tony. Steve wonders how much of Peter’s vintage gee-whiz persona is affected, these days—he’s no master manipulator, but he’s also clearly not above exploiting Tony’s clearly paternal affection.

“As long as Cap’s lab-rat doesn’t turn out to be defective, of course. And if that miracle occurs I was _thinking_ —maybe, _potentially_ —that there’s a very slim chance Peter Parker gets a little credit for this one.”

Peter’s web-shooters and web-formula aren’t attributed to Spiderman; the general public seems to think that they’re either SI technology or—bizarrely—organic, straight from Peter’s wrists. It would be too obvious, Christina had decided, and so Peter’s contributions are generally just attributed to Tony. Every so often, though, Tony allows Peter-the-intern a visible role in some side project here and there—just enough, Tony says, that MIT doesn’t even think about giving less than a full ride.

This time, Peter’s wide grin is so clearly genuine that Steve feels a pang of guilt. They’re the ones who’d roped Peter into this, after all—Steve can barely bring himself to play nice with his PR team, and he’s begrudging a seventeen year old a few moments of frustration. Is he really expecting Peter to be remain untouched by the same corporate cynicism that has _him_ wandering around the city at three in the morning?

“Don’t look so happy, I’m definitely going to be taking most of the credit. The vast majority of the credit, in fact—you’ll get a footnote, at best.” 

Peter just laughs.

Tony shakes his head, and turns abruptly to Steve. “I’ll meet you in the lab,” he says to Peter, looking pointedly at Steve. “I’ve got to have a little chit-chat with our fearless leader, here.”

Peter obediently trots off down the hall. 

Steve fights the urge to run after him. His former good mood has all but been extinguished—the last thing he wants to do is go head to head with Tony now, before James shows up. He doesn’t think that Tony will take his frustration with Steve out on James—at least, not when Stark Industries’ reputation is involved— 

Nat isn’t the only one who can use silence as a weapon.

“So,” Tony says finally, and Steve can tell he’s making an effort to keep his voice light. “Your guy has his first appointment today. James Barnes, right?”

Steve smiles tightly. “With Helen, yeah.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony says vaguely. “Once she gives me her work-up we’ll be able to start on the neuro-interfacing portion. Arm’s set, just have to get his specs. I’m letting Peter tinker harmlessly for the brownie points, but we’re basically ready to roll.”

Steve just nods silently. He’s never been worried about the actual prosthetic portion of this program, and he’s pretty sure Tony’s gearing up to something.

“Listen, Cap,” Tony says, abruptly squaring to face him. “Steve. I don’t think anyone’s missed the fact that it’s been a little, uh, tense. These days. Between us. It has been _suggested_ —” and here he makes a complicated face, “That I may, in fact, bear some culpability in that.”

Steve and Tony had never really been close, but in the past, they’d at least always been candid with each other. They’d butted heads from the moment they’d met, and it hadn’t helped that they’ve always been abrasive foils for each other in both personality and public persona. Initially, Steve had thought Tony a selfish playboy in it for the press, and Tony had clearly found Steve a cloying and obsolete source of childhood resentment. 

They’d eventually grown to respect and even like each other. Even after the Ultron debacle, Steve could have never imagined the bitterness and mistrust that has since developed between them. The last time they’d had an honest conversation, Tony had been all but begging Steve to sign the Accords. Inexplicably, he’d brought with him a pair of pens allegedly used by Roosevelt to sign the Lend-Lease Act in 1941. An olive branch, he’d called it, but all it had done was remind Steve of how alone and out of place he was. 

“ _I don’t want to see you gone_ ,” he’d said to Steve. “ _We need you, Cap. So far, nothing's happened that can't be undone, if you_ sign.”

At the time, Steve couldn’t help but feel somewhat moved by the raw desperation in Tony’s voice, even if he’d still turned Tony down that day. Things started to get ugly when Wanda had also refused to sign, but Steve thinks that it was really the rumblings in the media about Captain America’s reluctance to sign the Accords that had really driven an immovable wedge between them. The leak could have come from anywhere—or it could have even been honest speculation given Steve’s notable absence at Tony’s initial pressers about the Accords—but it would of course have hurt Tony that despite the initial, overwhelming popularity of the Accords, the press had been ready to side with Captain America at the slightest intimation of any misgivings.

“Since we’re going to be working together on this—or rather, I’ll be working, and you’ll be hovering in close proximity—I’d like us to, uh— _not_ have that tension. And I recognize that this is a somewhat anemic apology for coming down hard on you the other day, but can you just—this is me offering an olive branch, alright?”

It’s not that Tony’s gotten harder to read since then—it’s just that Steve thinks that even Tony may not know when he’s being sincere, at this point. Now that he and Pepper have broken up, Steve doesn’t know if Tony has anyone he can actually talk to that doesn’t just see him as Iron Man, or the face of Stark Industries. 

Nat, maybe—she’d be honest with Tony, at least, but Steve doesn’t think that they spend too much time together, either.

“Sure, Tony,” he says finally, for lack of anything better to say. He watches the corner of Tony’s mouth pull. 

“C’mon, Cap,” Tony says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Work with me here. I get it, okay? I’ve been an ass lately.”

Unwillingly, Steve softens. He shakes his head. “Yeah, you have,” he says, not unkindly, and Tony barks a laugh. “But I could have made an effort, too.”

Realistically, he knows, too much has happened since the Accords for them to ever go back to being what they were. Not just him and Tony, either—there’d been a real bond between them all back when they were just a ragtag team of misfits, each failing to fit in in his or her own way. Each just trying to do some good in the world. There’d been a certain honesty in that. A bond.

Now, all motives are suspect. All conversations are carefully worded and sometimes even scripted. Sometimes he thinks it’s ironic that he’d signed the Accords to keep the only family he’d had left, and that he’d lost them all anyway. 

“You could have,” Tony agrees, “But I don’t make it easy.”

Steve smiles wanly.

Tony claps him on the shoulder briskly. “Alright, that’s more than enough schmaltz for my week,” he says, and Steve hates that he sounds genuinely pleased. It’ll make the ensuing fallout—which will inevitably come—that much harder for both of them. 

“Tell Mr. Barnes that he should absolutely reconsider the media package we’ve put together for his review,” Tony calls over his shoulder as he follows Peter to the elevators. “It’s the twenty-first century. Everybody deserves their five minutes of fame.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

Steve watches Tony disappear around the corner, already talking a mile a minute into what he assumes must be earphones.

He’d wondered whether James appearing in his life wasn’t a turning point for him. Although secretly, he’s been thinking of this whole affair as something of an act of rebellion, ostensibly this project is supposed to be his fresh start with the Avengers—a reinvigoration of the Captain America image. Reaffirming his commitment to the team.

Maybe that doesn’t have to be a lie, and this can be what pulls him out of his funk. Maybe he can stop trying to swim against the tide, and put channel his efforts into rebuilding that sense of team—stop them all from falling apart, irrevocably. 

_We’re doing a lot of good here, Cap,_ Sam had told him. 

Despite his increasing misgivings, maybe Sam has a point. Maybe not everything has to be a fight. 

His phone vibrates at his hip, pulling him out of his reverie. It’s James.

_Hey, I know I’m embarrassingly early. Is it okay if I come up now?_

As Steve texts back a response, he resolves to give it one last try. 

What harm could it do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, extremely sorry for the delay! I'm flailing at my new position at work and honestly, it's been tough grinding through these next few chapters to get to the fun stuff. Please let me know what you think! <3
> 
> Quick notes/citations!
> 
> Description of how Special Forces might operate a hostage rescue taken and tweaked from:
> 
> Pfarrer, C. (2012). SEAL target Geronimo: The inside story of the mission to kill Osama Bin Laden. London: Quercus. 
> 
> Sniper mentality regarding Texas Tower and Munich Massacre (plus, probably, assorted bits of knowledge about how Delta operates - it's been awhile since I've actually read it) originally mentioned in: 
> 
> Haney, E. L. (2006). Inside Delta Force. New York: Delacorte Press.
> 
> Fun Fact! In 2018, Russia really did accuse the UK of staging a chemical attack in Syria. The US and France countered that they had proof it actually took place.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Calm Before the Storm.

“So, how’d it go?”

Bucky slides onto the barstool and glances at Clint. “I can’t take you seriously with that wig on.”

Now that he knows it’s Clint underneath the nano-mask and wig, it’s incredibly weird talking to him. Not only is it disconcerting seeing Clint’s voice coming out of someone else’s mouth, but the two don’t really match up—Clint’s voice is far too light for the grizzled visage he’s chosen.

Even worse, Clint has since swapped out the name Phil (“— _just a practical joke—old boss of mine at SHIELD. Probably evil now_ —”) for “Billy Butcher”, which is apparently the identity that he uses whenever he’s in the city. Hank Pym—apparently unfazed at Clint’s ridiculous choice of moniker—obligingly mocked up a reasonably realistic-looking ID detailing the personal information of William H. Butcher, ex-Marine currently living off of his pension. 

“I mean, in a situation in which we _actually_ get stopped by law enforcement or Stark Industries or whomever, we’re probably already fucked,” Clint had allowed, “But it makes me feel better. More official, you know?”

Bucky had felt zero qualms in telling Clint that “Billy Butcher” was the dumbest undercover name that he’d ever heard. “Why not just call yourself Pirate Pete?” he’d asked, and Clint had rolled his eyes. 

“You know, it’s no surprise that you’re getting along with Rogers. He was clinically uptight, too. The two of you together probably causes a void where fun goes to die.”

Now, Clint gives him a hard flick to the ear. “Look past the wig and give me some actual information, for once. How close are we to getting Scott in the door?”

In truth, Bucky has no idea. 

Two weeks ago, when he’d first started the program, he’d done exactly as Stark Industries’ Client Management Team had instructed him. He’d checked in at the black marble front desk, and then a woman with sleek hair and a slightly manic smile had given him a temporary Visitor’s Badge, introducing herself as Meredith, _your pilot through the Stark Industries experience!_

Bucky had blinked, nonplussed, as she’d beamed at him. 

“Of course, depending on your next scheduled visit—as I do see here that you’re going to be a recurring visitor, congratulations, Mr. Barnes!—someone else may be assigned to you, but of course you needn’t worry—we here at the Stark Industries family are dedicated to your safety and comfort!”

Somewhere during her speech, Bucky had tumbled to the understanding that Meredith was supposed to escort him up to the lab. He’d trotted obediently after Meredith as she walked them briskly through the first floor, her heels beating a staccato tattoo.

“As you’ll notice, most of our Stark Industries technology access controls operate via retinal scanners,” she’d informed Bucky cheerfully as they waited for the elevators. “If you’re above the second floor, you won’t be able to leave any elevator lobby without a Stark Industries Team Member to escort you.”

He’d watched for it after they’d stepped out onto the third-floor lobby—Meredith had clicked along self-assuredly to a set of glass double-doors and flicked her eyes up to a thin black square above the door frame. After a second, the black square had flashed green, and Meredith had immediately grabbed the door handle, waving Bucky cheerfully inside.

“I know it looks intimidating, but it’s perfectly safe,” Meredith had assured him as they’d approached a large set-up reminiscent of an airport scanner, manned by four hulking men in security uniforms. “Anyone heading up to our restricted floors is thoroughly checked out for your safety and ours!”

It had been just as thorough as Clint had told him. Bucky had had to remove all electronic items and outer layers, and then he’d been directed to stand as still as possible in the full-body scanner that Clint had warned him about. 

Clint had been right to call it an MRI—Bucky’s been through his fair share, and the pulsing whang had sounded eerily similar to what he remembers. In contrast, the infrared lasers that had descended and smoothly passed through his body like a giant red wall had been a completely new experience. Bucky had inwardly cringed—he’s sure that this must be safer than an average X-ray, but he can’t help but wonder if an entirely new file of settlement victims reeling from the effects of radioactivity will be added to the pile in years to come.

After receiving a bored nod from the security team manning the machine, Meredith had ushered Bucky over to another set of elevators. Unlike the elevators downstairs—which had been equipped with the usual set of buttons, even if they’d only gone up to the third floor—these appeared completely devoid of any door controls except a blank electronic screen the size of Bucky’s palm. The telltale black rectangle at the top of the elevator’s frame had flashed green, and then Meredith bent to manually input a number into the screen, which had suddenly blinked to life.

“Your new pilot will be waiting for you on the eighty-seventh floor,” Meredith informed him, gesturing for Bucky to step onto the elevator. “If no-one is there, please simply wait in the lobby and state in a clear, loud voice your name and that you need a pilot. Our state-of-the-art AI system will be able to route your request to our security team immediately.”

That must be JARVIS, the AI that Clint had told him about.

“Thanks,” he’d told Meredith, feeling overwhelmed, and she’d flashed him a huge, news-anchor grin. 

“My pleasure, Mr. Barnes!”

He’d been expecting another preternaturally cheerful corporate drone when the elevator doors had opened, but instead, Steve had been waiting there for him, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I hope this is okay,” Steve had said, smiling nervously. “I figured someone you know would be better than—well, Client Management can be a bit, uh. Much.”

Despite the fact that he’d spent the past week psyching himself up for vengeance, Bucky had actually felt relieved to see Steve. In retrospect, surrounded by what’s clearly a cultlike corporate atmosphere and oppressive, futuristic technology, he thinks that it’s sort of amazing that Steve comes off as normal as he does, at least in a one-on-one setting. 

Not that normalcy excuses his extracurricular activities, of course.

Bucky had—obviously—allowed Steve to sit in on his preliminary medical tests and had surprisingly had a not-terrible time. Dr. Helen Cho had been warm and professional, and when she’d sensed Bucky tensing up as she’d prepared a local anesthetic to take small tissue samples from his stump, she’d launched into a story about how Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, had apparently fainted during a blood draw.

“Because I was _dehydrated!_ ” Steve had protested over Bucky’s laughter. “It was right after a mission, and I hadn’t had anything to drink in over twenty-four hours! Not because I’m _afraid_ of needles!”

Bucky had given Stark Industries permission to view his medical files from the VA. Since he’d gone there at least twice a week for follow-up and physical therapy when he’d first got back he’d first been released from the hospital, Helen had already been able to review his medical history. The only awkward moment of the visit had come when she’d delicately pointed out the large gap in his medical history.

“Mr. Barnes,” she’d asked smoothly, “It looks as though you haven’t been back to the VA in—quite some time. Can you tell me what medications you’re currently taking?”

When he’d first been discharged, the VA had loaded Bucky up with all kinds of drugs. They’d routinely shot him up with various steroidal medications he doesn’t have names for, and they’d sent him on his way with a host of pain pills and antidepressants and sleep-aids to deal with his residual limb pain and sleeplessness and assorted other conditions. 

Now, though, he’s basically taking an optimistic ibuprofen every once in awhile. After awhile, everything had just settled into a sort of dull grey pain, and nothing they gave him—especially the sleeping pills—seems to help very much anymore.

“Nothing, really,” he’d told her, and she’d looked up from her monitor. 

“Mr. Barnes,” she’d said, hesitating for a moment, “It’s perfectly normal to—”

“No, really,” he’d interrupted with a shrug. “Ibuprofen every once in awhile. That’s about it.”

There’d been a short pause. 

“And—any drugs or alcohol? Uh, currently?”

She’d glanced at Steve quickly. 

Predictably, Steve’s face had been set in firm, understanding lines. “I can step outside, if you—”

“Alcohol,” Bucky had interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Uh, quite a bit of it, to be honest. Beer, mostly. But no drugs.” 

He’d hesitated, looking between them. “I mean, I can totally stop if you need me to. Or, at least, you know. Pause.”

Helen had smiled then. “Absolutely not necessary, Mr. Barnes, but I appreciate your candor.”

Afterwards, Steve had asked if Bucky wanted to grab a quick coffee “on the house”, and escorted him to a small kitchenette filled with single-serving snacks and Keurigs. 

“I know it’s not much, but it’s either this or one filled with tourists on the second floor,” Steve had told him.

Bucky had shrugged. “Hey, it’s free right?”

They’d talked a bit about the prosthetic, and then Bucky had taken the opportunity to plant some seeds about security and how terribly invasive and inconvenient it had all been.

“Surprised they didn’t ask me to bend over and cough,” he’d said, raising his brows, and Steve had made a face. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s pretty awful,” he’d replied, grimacing. “We’ve actually gotten a few official complaints about it—VIPs who don’t like the lasers, mostly—you know that guy Elon Musk wanted to sue Tony? He _really_ doesn’t like X-rays, apparently—but it’s actually safe.”

Bucky had simply nodded, cursing himself inwardly. He’d been hoping for a little more indignation on Steve’s part—maybe he should have played up the PTSD angle more.

“And you’ve got, what, artificial intelligence running the place—? My, uh, _pilot_ told me that it can basically hear you anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Steve had nodded, sipping his coffee, “She—the program—is called FRIDAY. I know it can seem a little unsettling at first, but she keeps the place running smoothly.”

So not JARVIS then, but apparently, functionally the same thing. He wondered what had happened to JARVIS.

An awkward silence had fallen, and then Bucky had taken a breath. “So, I have to ask. What’s with the, uh. Company jargon?”

Steve had crooked a smile. “Ah, I know what you’re talking about. Stark Industries likes the company culture to reflect in its terminology. We say _Team Member_ instead of _employee_ , for example. To mirror the flat structure of the organization.”

Steve’s voice had been carefully light and colorless. 

“Google does something like that, I think,” Bucky had said, thinking of some half-remembered article. “No offense, man, but it’s a little—weird. Calling someone a team member or whatever doesn’t make them any less of a wage slave.”

Steve had shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s a bit out there, but people seem to like working here, so...”

“Oh, c’mon. Steve.”

Steve had hesitated then, clearly wavering, before allowing himself a rueful grin. “Okay, fine. It’s—it’s bullshit.”

Bucky had laughed despite himself. Despite his mission, despite _everything_ , he can’t help but find Steve Rogers being a regular guy oddly appealing.

“My ‘pilot through the Stark Industries experience?’ Seriously. What the fuck.”

Steve had outright laughed then. Not for the first time, Bucky had been struck by how Steve’s face was transformed in levity. 

Steve’s voice had lost its waning edge of formality entirely. “Honestly, it’s pretty new. They've been doing these continuous big culture overhaul right after the Accords because Stark Industries is so public facing now, and now there’s this whole terminology we’re supposed to use. Apparently, a lot of the really big companies do this sort of thing. Honestly, I always just forget.” He’d cocked an eyebrow at Bucky, then, a flash of mischief flickering across his face. “Sometimes on purpose.”

Bucky had glanced up, towards the ceiling. “I didn’t just get you in trouble with the robot, did I?” 

Steve had shrugged, still grinning unrepentantly. “Eh, probably. To be fair, though, I'm not the only one. Even Pepper--uh, the CEO--keeps slipping up.”

They’ve gotten coffee after every appointment since, and although Bucky thinks that in some ways they’re building a decent rapport, Steve seems much more reluctant to voice any criticism of Stark Industries, or his role as Captain America. He seems a lot more closed off than he had when they’d first met in that coffee shop, actually, and Bucky wonders if Steve really had had gotten called to the carpet for that private instance of—what? Insubordination? It’s a sobering prospect. 

More importantly, he’s still no closer to side-stepping the onerous security process. Steve is always apologetic whenever Bucky mentions it, but he shows no signs of the righteous indignation they’d hoped for. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” he tells Clint now. “You were right about him being a boy-scout. Like I said, at first he was okay making a snarky comment about Stark Industries every once in awhile, but now he’s definitely playing by the rules.”

He hesitates, and then voices the concern that’s been lurking in the back of his mind for the last few days. “Honestly? I think he just doesn’t want to screw anything up for me.”

Clint stares at him for a few seconds, and then rolls his eyes heavenward. “Well, that’s just great. I guess I can’t fault you for doing your job, but—fuck. I should’ve seen that coming. You’re probably right.”

There’s a sort of black irony in the fact that Steve Rogers’ good intentions are now foiling their plan.

“They’re really going to make you do this every single time? There’s not even some sort of, I don’t know—frequent flyer good-will?”

“You’d think, but no. Stark must be more paranoid than even you’d thought.”

“Yeah, speaking of,” Clint says, “When do you see him? I mean, you have to for the arm, right?”

“Yeah,” Buck says. “Next Monday, actually.”

He’s not looking forward to it for myriad reasons. Although at this point he’s starting to get excited about the arm itself, Helen had gently let him know that at the very least, they’ll likely have to take a few inches more of what he’s got left in order to make the new one work. He’d expected as much, but can’t quite let himself believe that he’s about to let _Stark Industries_ do exploratory surgery on him. There's a sort of black irony in it, to say the least.

He’s also not sure he’ll be able to rein himself in around Stark. Playing nice with Steve is one thing, but Bucky had found Tony Stark insufferable even before Syria. He’d been pretty inescapable in the media thanks to his apparent need to chase the limelight, and Bucky had thought him the personification of smarmy rich douchebag long before he’d personally destroyed Bucky’s life.

“Well, that’ll be easy at least. Enough flattery and he’ll put you right in the same bucket as everyone else.”

Bucky frowns and thumbs at his glass. “I’m not sure that’s how I should play it.”

He’s not sure that’s how he _can_ play it.

“Uh, _I_ am. And I think I know him a bit better than you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know that Steve would like that. Seems like there’s tension there, although he clearly tries to hide it.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “There always was, especially after Ultron. Nice to see that some things don’t change, I guess, but don’t forget—Steve’s still on the company payroll, and Tony’s giving you a brand-new arm. For free. Steve’ll expect a bit of ass-kissing, I’m sure.”

“But I’m supposed to be unaffected by all of this,” Bucky counters, gesturing vaguely at a conceptual Stark Industries. “ _That’s_ what Steve is going to expect.”

“And _that_ won’t do you a bit of good if Tony is suspicious of you,” Clint retorts. “Don’t forget that our girl had to run interference for you after Steve first brought you in. Tony’s going to wonder about why they supposedly couldn’t find you. Your main goal with Tony is just to be forgettable—you can’t act too smart, too interesting, or too suspicious. You’ve got the first two nailed, of course.”

“Ha, ha.”

“In all seriousness, he probably already thinks you’re weird because you want to stay anonymous. So just be boring and grateful, and get started on Plan B.” 

_Plan B_ is supposed to be Bucky gaining entrance to Steve’s apartment.

“How do you know they won’t make me go through security for that, too?”

Clint sets his drink down on the bar-top with more force than necessary. “I don’t know, Barnes; why don’t you _figure something out?_ You do realize, don’t you, that we are running out of time, here? While you’ve been playing footsies with Steve, SI has been getting EDITH ready to launch, if it hasn’t already been. Whatever the fuck Project TAHITI is is going to go live at some point, too. You are going to need to quit the foreplay and go for broke.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Bucky retorts, his own temper rising. “You think I’m spending half my time hanging around Stark Industries because I like Steve’s _company_? It’s only been two weeks, Barton.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “I think you’re not exactly finding it a chore these days. First it was _Captain America_ , then it was _Rogers_ , and now it’s _Steve_. Look, I get it, Barnes—he’s a likeable guy. Reels you in with those baby-blues. It probably feels shitty lying to him, but you need to remember who he is, and who he works for.” 

“ _I know_ ,” Bucky says through clenched teeth. “Did you really think I could forget?”

Clint looks at him for a long moment, and then sighs. “No, I know. I’m just—I’m not questioning you, okay? There’s been a lot of activity our source doesn’t like, but she’s—we’re—in the dark here. This program is going to end at some point, and we’ve got a closing window. I’m worried that we might be too late to stop them.”

Bucky gives him a warning look, and Clint purses his lips with noticeable effort. The particular bar they've chosen for this rendezvous is pretty perfect for their needs--large, loud, and very far off the Stark Industries-grid--but nowhere is one-hundred percent safe. Bucky still would have preferred to have these conversations in the car again, or at least on the phone, but he'd been overruled; Clint had thought that SI might be keeping an eye on him, and getting a few drinks with a friend makes him look both more normal and less paranoid than hopping into a shady beater or being a total loner.

“Look, we’ve set up a secondary location in Manhattan as the drop-site for Scott, so that we can move quickly on this if need be," Clint says in a much lower voice. "I’ll text you the address later. If you get wind that Steve is down to have a beer or something, you can swing by on your way to Avengers Tower.”

Hank and Scott had grilled Bucky over and over and the actual mechanics of how this will work. For Bucky, it’s mostly about timing—Scott will be hidden on his person until they arrive in Steve’s apartment. Once there, he’ll have to stall as long as possible until Scott returns, having successfully planted Hank’s tech. Once Scott gives Bucky the pre-arranged signal that he’s returned, Bucky needs to leave Avengers Tower as soon as possible. 

Although Bucky’s report that Tony has updated his AI had given him slight pause, Hank still seems certain that Scott—and his tech—will go undetected by FRIDAY. Clint’s source will also be running interference on any odd blips that may come through. Still, there’s no reason to risk things by hanging around longer than necessary.

“I got it,” Bucky says, staring into his beer. 

Clint claps him on the back. “We’ll get it done, Barnes. Just hang in there. And, just a thought—a minute ago you looked like you were giving me eyes like you wanted to take my head off. Maybe avoid that kind of stuff, you know? Flies and honey, and all that."

* * *

* * *

Steve wakes up with a sinking feeling in his chest, and at first he doesn’t realize why. 

It isn’t until he checks his calendar that he realizes that today has the potential for a disastrous double-header. They’ve got their monthly Avengers touch-base in the morning, and then in the afternoon Tony will be working directly with Bucky for the first time.

For a second, he’s tempted to just head straight back to bed. Not for the first time, he curses the serum’s immunization affects—unlike the others, he can’t get away with claiming to be sick. 

Instead, he gets dressed and trudges downstairs. They don’t use the top-floor boardroom for these meetings, although the public seems to picture it that way. Instead, Steve finds the rest of the Avengers—plus Christina—waiting for him in a plush but standard conference room. Everyone is haphazardly scattered around a long glass table, collectively ignoring the untouched box of donuts that has been placed in its center. 

Only Peter and Vision look bright-eyed today. Steve knows that Sam and Natasha had jointly hosted a benefit for sexual abuse survivors the night before, and they both look half-awake now. Tony is slouched in his chair, frowning at his StarkPhone, and Wanda looks unusually irritated.

“And Rogers,” Christina says, business-like, as he eases into a seat next to Sam. “That’s everyone.”

No Rhodes, so there must not be anything involving the military on the agenda. Steve’s not surprised—he can’t remember the last time the Avengers had actually been deployed on anything requiring UN approval. Coast Guard assists and peacekeeping missions on American soil only require officer sign-offs, as far as he knows.

“So we’re a few minutes early—that you for that, by the way—but I think we can get started now—give you all a little time back?”

“Yep.” Tony doesn’t look up from his StarkPhone.

“Okay, let’s jump right in. Peter—we’re talking about expanding your route. Long Island’s been seeing an uptick in crime, but we’re also considering more time in Manhattan.”

Steve drifts off as Christina continues to talk. The purpose of these meetings, according to Christina, is to give each other visibility into their various initiatives. Mostly, though, it’s just a run-down of that month’s PR events, and a chance for Christina to get any group housekeeping items out into the open.

“Wanda,” Christina says now, “You’ve got Marie Claire on Wednesday. We’ll brief you on the talking points tomorrow, and you can let us know what questions will be off-limits.”

“Here’s a question,” Wanda says crossly. The sourness in her voice is emphasized by the sharpness of her Sokovian accent. “Am I going to have to pretend to be single again for this interview?” 

Steve sees Vision lay a hand on her arm, and barely catches his mouth before it drops open.

No way.

He shoots a furtive glance around the room. Just from their faces, he can pick out which Avengers already know—Natasha looks resigned, and Tony looks put-upon, but Peter’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head.

Sam is looking straight back at Steve with both eyebrows raised to their limits. When Steve catches his gaze, Sam quickly but unmistakably mouths, _What the fuck_?

Tony sighs loudly. “Wanda, honey—”

“We can talk about it,” Christina intervenes. She gives Tony a warning glance. “At the very least, we’ll take that off the list of pre-approved questions.”

Wanda’s mouth tightens further, but she just shrugs, her brows set in angry lines. 

After a brief silence, Christina moves on to Sam’s potential partnership with NAMI.

Wanda and _Vision_?

Steve’s mind spins until Christina calls his name, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“Last but not least, Rogers. Looks like our prosthetics pilot program is on-schedule?”

She looks at him expectantly. 

“Uh, yeah. Helen says we’re close to preliminary surgery.”

“Good. Speaking of—Stark, you’re meeting with them in the lab today, at three.”

Stark doesn’t look up from his phone, although his frown deepens. “Fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Steve winces internally. Tony’s mercurial on a good day, but this morning he seems to be in a particularly bad humor. It doesn’t bode well for his later meeting with James.

“Then if there are no other questions, I’ll give you all that time back. Sam, a quick word?”

Sam gives him a significant look as they all start to stand up, muttering, “Later?” 

Steve gives him an answering nod.

As Steve pushes his way out, he sees Wanda hurrying away down the hallway, her shoulders rigidly squared. Vision trails her, on foot. Now that Steve thinks about it, Vision seems to have been acting more human lately; using doors to exit and enter rooms instead of phasing through walls, and even wearing normal clothes, although he has no need to.

To his left, Nat heads for the elevators. After a split second, he decides to follow after her.

“Hey,” Steve says, when he catches up. “Did you know about this?”

She glances at him without breaking stride. “Wanda and Vision? You mean you didn’t?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Obviously not. How long has this been going on?”

Nat shrugs dismissively. “Year or so? At least, they’ve been doing a lot of late-night talking in each other’s rooms for about that long. After awhile it was pretty obvious.” She gives him another sidelong glance. “To anyone paying attention.”

"That’s—I mean, how does that even work?”

She stops and turns to face him. “What do you care, Steve?” 

Steve frowns. Natasha sounds unusually harsh, and he can't quite tell what she's getting at. Possibly she's just taking another shot at his lack of involvement, but maybe she thinks that he disapproves, or something. 

“I mean, I don’t care—at least, not the way you’re making it sound. I care about Wanda. And Vision. It’s just…he’s a—you know. Robot.”

Natasha looks at him for a long moment, her face softening just the slightest amount. “Yeah, I know. At first, I thought the same thing. But if they make each other happy…?”

She shrugs.

Steve is silent for a moment, digesting this. In retrospect, Wanda and Vision do spend a lot of time together, but he hadn’t guessed there was anything more to it than companionship. He’d figured they’d simply found solace in being so different.

The thought makes him feel strangely lonely.

“And Wanda’s not allowed to say anything about it?”

“Neither of them are. I mean, think about it, Steve. Vision’s not even human.”

Although he’s still struggling to wrap his mind around what he's learned, Steve feels a familiar flare of resentment. Stark Industries, once again dictating who they’re allowed to be.

“So? Wanda can move things with her mind.”

Natasha sighs. “Yes, but _think,_ Steve. It’s not like we’re dealing with Thor or some other alien, here. Like you said, Vision’s a robot. An android, actually, but the point is that Tony literally _made_ him. The optics of a human-android relationship alone are bad enough, but the last thing we need are questions about the ethics of _creating_ such an incredibly powerful being.”

She gives him a warning look. “Especially after what happened with Ultron. It took a lot of damage-control after Lagos to rehabilitate Wanda’s image. We don’t need that kind of scrutiny now.”

Later, Steve turns the situation over in his head as he stares in the general direction of his television. He can admit that it’s still incredibly weird to him; Vision’s a robot—or an android, whatever that is—and he’s also, JARVIS, in some respect. Despite everything, he still believes in a higher-power--does Vision have a soul? Or is he only what they'd made him to be?

Is there a difference?

Steve can still remember when they’d literally given him life—or, rather, Thor had, rocketing down from the sky to land on the regeneration cradle. When Vision had first emerged, Steve had been sure, just for a moment, that they were all doomed. 

Another Ultron, this one virtually indestructible. 

He still thinks that it was only blind luck that Vision had turned out to be “on the side of life”, as he’d put it, but even now Steve can’t forget that the yellow stone on Vision’s forehead was once used to brainwash Clint into killing dozens of fellow SHIELD agents.

What on earth do Vision and Wanda talk about? How would a romance between them even work?

Does it matter?

Growing up a five-foot-four asthmatic had left him a perpetual wallflower. He’d never had many friends; he’d been noticeably poor and woefully unathletic, and both had served to make him fairly unpopular in school. Most girls never gave him a second glance. Nothing much changed once he graduated, and before Erskine had found him, he’d thought himself doomed to bachelorhood. 

Now, he’s an American icon and international celebrity. Women literally throw themselves at him and he could have his pick of partners, but altogether he doesn’t feel much different than he did back in the nineteen thirties. Sometimes he thinks that Peggy was the only person who ever _saw_ him—at least, in the way that he’d wanted someone to. 

It’s petty, he knows, but he can’t help but feel a little stung at the thought that a literal robot has found someone, and he still hasn’t. 

Unbidden, he thinks of James. 

It was only after James’s first appointment at the Tower that Steve had realized that he’d unfairly freighted auspices onto their coincidental meetings. James had lightly mocked the ridiculous corporate jargon that Christina insists on, and after a token protest, Steve had thrown caution to the wind and joined him, partially out of relief. He'd been so happy that James had come to the same conclusion that he had that he'd initially failed to realize that he could have jettisoned the whole project--and James's chance at a new life--right then and there.

At first, Sam had thought the big corporate overhaul as weird as Steve had, and they’d often joked about the cult-like mentality that Stark Industries is clearly trying to foster. In the past year or so, though, Sam has grown increasingly reluctant to criticize Stark Industries at all. Worse, he seems almost disapproving lately whenever Steve expresses any reticence about a new SI initiative or directive.

“Look, I get it, it’s weird,” he’d told Steve when last they'd discussed the new terminology, shaking his head, “But the mentality behind it actually isn’t half-bad. You gotta remember that language reflects culture. If you can get people to buy into the idea that everyone’s a _team member_ , and not an employee or a subordinate, then people start to feel like they’re part of something. And, hopefully, they start to realize that each team member is just as important as the rest.”

At the time, Steve had simply nodded along. Privately, though, he’d been a little unsettled. He’d always just assumed that Sam would see things his way; he’d thought that anyone as sincere as Sam would undoubtedly see Stark Industries so transparently artificial. Not only does Steve now not feel entirely comfortable sharing his reservations with Sam, he’s also not sure that his more negative opinions won’t be reported.

At some point after arriving in the Future, Steve had learned the phrase “drinking the kool-aid”. Despite the fact that he still thinks it’s an overly flippant expression given its horrific origins, he can’t help but feel that it’s sadly apt, these days.

Laughing about Stark Industries and FRIDAY with James had given Steve a heady rush. In retrospect, though, his behavior had been incredibly immature—petty rebellion for the sake of it, like a child misbehaving in church. James isn’t his partner-in-crime, here—he’s a guest of Stark Industries, a veteran who Steve is supposed to be helping.

Since he’s started this project, he hasn’t received any more nighttime visits from Natasha or ambushes by Sam, but in retrospect, he realizes that he must have come perilously close to actual disciplinary action for them to have broached the subject in the first place. As a signatory to the Accords, any power that he has to effect change could have—and still can be—completely nullified. 

Cracking jokes about Stark Industries, sharing private information about its _CEO_ and thumbing his nose at FRIDAY aren’t the actions of someone willing to play ball.

He is a representative of Stark Industries, and it is only in his role as representative that he is in a position to provide James with a new limb. Since then, he’s been careful to hold James at arm’s length, and to toe the company line—he’ll never forgive himself if his petty little rebellion comes at personal cost to James. 

Besides, even though James seems happy enough to make small talk over coffee after his appointments, Steve increasingly worries that he may just see it as the price of admission. James has always accepted Steve's invitations to hang-out, but since their first meeting, he hasn't reached out to Steve himself. For all Steve knows, James is just indulging Steve because he seems him as a benefactor.

He’s nervous all the way up until James shows up. James breaks into an easy smile as soon as he spots Steve, and Steve suddenly feels like an ass for ever thinking that James could act so fake.

“What’s up, Steve?” James asks, grinning. “You wouldn’t believe what I saw walking in today.”

Steve feels his nervousness fade as James cheerfully describes a mini-protest that’s apparently going on right outside of Stark Industries. Such protests are increasingly rare, but usually pretty out-there. According to James, this one—a group of less than ten people, apparently—are accusing Tony of being anti-capitalist because of his new Clean Energy Initiative.

“Well, that’s a new one,” Steve admits. 

The protest won’t make a blip on the radar—if it does, it’ll be solely because Christina thinks that it’ll only enhance the CEI profile. Stark Industries shares had apparently rose over ten percent in the three hours following Tony’s announcement.

“Takes all kinds I guess.”

“I guess.” 

Steve clears his throat. “So,” he starts, trying to sound encouraging, “You already know this, but we’ll be with Tony Stark, up in his lab. He’s been working on your arm for awhile now—he’s, uh…”

James just looks at him patiently, but Steve can tell he’s a bit perplexed. No small wonder, as Steve still hasn’t decided the best way to approach the issue of Tony Stark.

Although he’s clearly more at ease in Avengers Tower than he’d been at first, Steve can still sense that James harbors some uneasiness with the whole Avengers conceit. He’ll lightly tease Steve about it sometimes, but lately, Steve thinks that he’s been picking up on a deeper undercurrent of dislike for Stark Industries itself. He can’t exactly fault James, as he himself is increasingly discomfited by his own celebrity, but he also can’t help wonder if James’ aversion has deeper roots that he’s unaware of.

James is an intensely private person and they haven’t talked much about his upbringing, but from what little Steve’s been able to discern, James hadn’t exactly been a child of wealth and privilege. Steve guesses that—like himself—James probably won’t be too impressed by Tony swinging his net worth around. More importantly, while Steve has been fighting against the commercialization of his own image, Tony has been wholeheartedly embracing the spotlight for decades now. 

Deep down, Steve fears that maybe James will look at Tony and see the reflection of what Steve has allowed himself to become.

“A bit much?” James finally fills in for him, and Steve gives him a half-smile.

“I see you’ve watched the news sometime in the past decade.”

He winces internally. He’s got his own personal problems with Tony, but they shouldn’t— _can’t_ —affect the success of this project.

“I mean, he can be over the top, but he’s a good guy,” he amends hastily. “And he really is a genius. We’re already working on launching this nationwide if—when—your trial is successful; it’s going to change a lot of people’s lives.”

James just shrugs, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “He can’t be any worse than you, right?”

“Hilarious.”

Before the Accords, Steve knows, Tony used to spend hours—days, even—back in the lab. Steve found him there once, on a rare visit; Tony had been flushed and surrounded by empty cans of energy drink. His dirty wife-beater had been nearly soaked through with sweat. Steve had had to stand almost directly in front of Tony to get his attention, the pounding bass of Tony’s music having rendered him almost inaudible. That had been back when Pepper had been the CEO in more than just name, and Tony had been content to let her run the company. 

Now, the lab is silent and spotless. Tony strides forward to greet them, dressed in crisp trousers and a clean black shirt. 

“Tony Stark,” Tony says, giving James an ironic salute with the small silver wrench in his hand. “And you, Mr. James Barnes, are a tough man to find.”

James smiles in response. As predicted, he doesn’t seem overly impressed by the fact that he’s meeting Iron Man himself, although Steve notes that he does look somewhat tense, in an abrupt contrast to his earlier sunny mood. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yes, you are,” Tony replies, gesturing for them to follow him deeper into the lab, “And, on behalf of everyone at Stark Industries and the many putative beneficiaries of this project, may I say that we are all _extremely_ grateful that you’ve agreed to be our guinea pig.”

“The least I can do, right?” James returns, his mouth twisting wryly. “But, uh—in all seriousness. Thank you. It’s—I can’t thank you both enough.”

Tony shrugs, gesturing several detailed blue holograms to life. “Just what we do here at Stark Industries,” he says breezily, busily tapping at one of them to enlarge certain sections. “Bringing the world into the future one giant technological leap at a time. Hell, we even taught Cap how to work a microwave.”

Steve rolls his eyes and automatically looks at James, but James’s gaze is still fixed on Tony. 

Tony turns abruptly to face James and feigns appraisal. “Well, aren’t you handsome? In a broody sort of way. And, more importantly, undeniably photogenic, I’m sure—Cap here tells me you want to do this incognito, but don’t tell me you wouldn’t love to see your face on the cover of the New York Times.”

Tony’s voice is playful, but James just shakes his head, smiling politely. “No. Thank you.”

Tony cocks his head, an affected frown between his brows. “No? It’ll be tasteful, I assure you—we can send the proceeds to the non-profit of your choice, even, if that’s your hang-up.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no.” 

“O-kay,” Tony drawls, raising his brows and turning away to fiddle with a complicated-looking machine. “Well, I can see why you and Cap get along so well. Step here, please.”

James steps tentatively into the space Tony indicates.

“And shirt off.”

Steve has seen James shirtless now a few times, but he never fails to be struck by the numerous scars that score James’s chest and back. There’s a particularly angry red mark that runs from neck to breastbone; Steve can’t imagine what could have put that there. Shrapnel, maybe.

It makes Steve feel oddly self-conscious. He’s undoubtedly been injured at least as many times as James, he knows that much, but the fact that his own skin will never show it makes him feel like something of a fraud.

“Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with, here.”

Tony keeps up a steady chatter as he works, seemingly trying to put James as ease. In retrospect, Steve isn’t sure why he was so worried about this meeting in the first place—if the matter is public-facing and Tony is sober, he’s generally on his best behavior, for whatever that’s worth. James is a veteran and the first recipient of what Tony must hope will be a multi-million dollar goodwill generator; despite James’ protestations of wanting to remain anonymous (and despite the numerous NDAs and waivers that now bear his signature), James is still, for all intents and purposes, a client. He’s still _the Public_ , and to Tony, image is everything.

“So, James,” Tony continues, as he enlarges what looks like an incredibly detailed holographic image of the inside of James’s arm, “What is it that you do? Steve here was incredibly tight-lipped about you.”

James stiffens. “I was—in the army.”

There’s a slight pause. 

“Right,” Tony says. “But you were discharged?”

“Yes.”

“And—what do you do now? To fill your days, pay the rent. Pass the time. Et cetera.”

James shrugs tightly. 

The atmosphere in the room feels suddenly tense, and even Tony seems to have realized that he’s touched on a delicate subject.

“Right now? Therapy, mostly,” James says finally, and Steve frowns.

He knows enough from James’s conversations with Helen that James hasn’t been to physical therapy in months. Now that he thinks about it, Steve doesn’t really remember James ever mentioning a job to him, either.

“Ah,” Tony says, clearly floundering. 

An awkward silence fills the room.

“So, Tony—do we get to actually see the arm today?” Steve asks finally, in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

James shoots him a quick glance. 

“Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but—sure! Why not,” Tony says, throwing Steve a grateful look. “We’re basically done here—you can put your shirt back on, James, thanks so much. It should be right around here—somewhere—FRIDAY! I seem to be missing a piece of cutting-edge technology, here.”

“I believe that you allowed Mr. Parker to examine it, sir.”

Steve sees James’s eyes widen when he hears FRIDAY’s brogue. He glances around the ceiling, as if expecting FRIDAY to reveal herself.

“Ah, right. Apologies—overeager intern—FRIDAY, send in Mr. Parker, would you? And tell him that Mr. Barnes would like to take a look at his new arm.”

Steve notes that James does a double take when Peter finally enters the lab clutching a long metal case. It’s not hard to guess why—a high-school student working for the world’s most preeminent technology companies is unusual enough, but Peter looks as though he might be all of fourteen.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says breathlessly, handing over the case, widening his eyes and appearing for all the world a dumbstruck intern.

Tony waves a dismissive hand at him and Peter dutifully retreats a respectful distance, eyeing James curiously.

“Here we are,” Tony says, as he opens the case.

The astonishment on James’s face must certainly be mirrored on Steve’s own. It’s one thing to see the arm rendered in graphic design, but quite another to see a perfectly formed limb of metal. 

“Go ahead, touch it,” Tony says, a look of satisfaction on his face as he watches James. 

James reaches out hesitantly and runs a hand over the arm. 

“Patented steel alloy, impervious to water and heat. Well, most heat. Don’t shove it in a volcano, or anything. It’s light enough that it won’t drag on your shoulder-blade, but at least as strong as your other arm—we might need to make some slight adjustments, depending on how you feel once it’s on.”

“And Dr. Cho said this will be able to feel things?

“Some things, absolutely. Sensory pressure, mostly, and some texture although nothing too finely grained. Obviously it’s a bit of a delicate balance—we’re not just going to strap a Terminator arm on you, can’t have you ripping off door handles left and right like Cap, here—but as long as we get the neural integration right, it should function similar to a regular arm.”

James nods, still looking at the arm. “And what if you don’t get the neural integration right?”

“Mr. Barnes, I won’t lie to you—there are some significant risks associated with this project. That being said, please believe me when I say that I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought it was even remotely likely that it would go wrong in the way I suspect you’re imagining. My PR people would kill me.”

James crooks a smile. “That’s reassuring.”

Tony claps a hand on his shoulder. “It was a joke, James. Mostly, at any rate. You’re supposed to laugh at those. Anyway, as I said—we’re about wrapped up here. I’ve got a bit more to do with this, so you can take off until—when do we see you again? Monday. Until Monday. Also, I took a look at your file—hope you don’t mind—and I noticed that you live an appalling distance from here. You know you don’t have to keep riding the subway, right? Just ask and we’ll send an obscenely large car to pick you up.”

James’s smile tightens. “Thanks, but I got it.”

“Right. In-cog-nito. To each their own, I suppose. I look forward to making medical history with you, nonetheless.” 

“Thank you, again, really. For the arm.”

“Happy to help." Tony smiles, all professional sincerity, and then glances at Steve. "Catch up later, Cap?”

Steve nods. “Sure. Thanks, Tony.”

James is silent as they leave the lab and head for the elevators. 

Steve feels unaccountably awkward. The encounter had gone far better than he’d hoped—aside from a few oddly tense moments—but James still looks stiff, his face set in a slight frown. 

Maybe Tony’s casually privileged remarks had simply been too much for a man who Steve is beginning to suspect may not have a job. Steve isn’t sure what kind of pensions vets are pulling in these days, but he’s headlined enough benefits for veteran homelessness awareness to know that James wouldn’t be the first man the army has simply discarded; even though he's getting a new limb free of charge, Tony's casual excess must seem appallingly wasteful to him. 

“So—still on for coffee?”

James startles slightly, as though he’d been lost in thought. “Uh—sorry, I can't today. I forgot to tell you earlier. But Monday, for sure."

“Oh,” Steve says, a little desperately. “Yeah, no problem.”

Maybe spending a few hours with Tony has made James see Steve in an entirely new light. Or maybe he’s been trying so hard to be a good Stark Industries representative that he’s failed to be an actual person these past few weeks. 

When did he become such a coward?

Steve draws himself up and takes a breath. 

“Would you want to watch the game tomorrow? With me, I mean.”

James looks surprised. “I don’t come back in until next week,” he says, sounding uncertain. 

“No, I know,” Steve says hastily. “It doesn’t have to be here, or—I thought that maybe we could just hang out. Have a beer. And—this is Steve Rogers asking, not Captain America. You really don’t have to—I promise I won’t take it personally if you’re sick of me.”

James smiles at that—a real smile, one that softens his face in a way that Steve hasn’t seen before. 

He shakes his head slowly, and Steve’s heart drops before James says, “I’m not sick of you, Steve. I really don’t think anyone could be. I was just kind of lost in thought back there.”

Steve feels himself flush, and James laughs at that, but not unkindly. “Here works. Eight, right?”

“Right,” Steve says, too quickly, unable to stop himself from grinning much too widely. “Eight. And don’t worry about all of the—that stupid security thing. We’ll be closed to the public, although most of our team members will still be working, so just come in as usual and I’ll take you up on our private elevator.”

James raises a mocking brow, grinning back at Steve. “I wondered when you’d start trying to impress me.”

“Oh, I don’t have to try,” Steve says, flexing a little. “I’m Captain America, remember?”

“How could I forget?” James teases, rolling his eyes, but his smile is bright as he adds, “Looking forward to it.”

As he walks back to his apartment, Steve feels lighter than he has in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a lovely and SAFE holiday! This chapter was a bear, but now we're getting to the fun stuff. I wanted to give a sincere thank-you to everyone who has been reading a commenting; I'm not being flip when I say that it makes me so incredibly happy to see people enjoying this, particularly as my actual work is soul-destroying.
> 
> A HUGE, particular thank-you to finalfrontierpioneer, who not only has a really cool username but also made me incredibly cool FANART! It kept me going through a truly hellish December, and I'm still both (1) over the moon and (2) figuring out how to actually put it in the fic. I did finally find a how-to guide, but if anyone has tips, please let me know.
> 
> Quick Notes: big corporations really do pull this weird cult-y stuff all the time. And they love a good terminology overhaul. It's not all necessarily bad, and I will neither admit nor deny any first-hand experience, but if you're interested, give this Harvard Business Review article a read: https://hbr.org/2019/05/is-your-corporate-culture-cultish
> 
> Pro-tip: if an organization says that they're a "family", that means they probably want to take advantage of you. Good organizations just give you decent PTO and compensation, they don't need to pretend to be your family.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Slow burn but not my usual glacial speed. Comments are appreciated!
> 
> Also -- those little notes on pet cages? Basically taken from real life. Don't abandon your pets.


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